


Blind Side Tackle

by LonghornLetters



Series: Stony NFL AU [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU - National Football League, Boss/Employee Relationship, Friends to Lovers, I mean sort of..., M/M, NFL AU, NFL Team Owner Tony Stark, Quarterback Steve Rogers, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Team Owners aren't technically the player's bosses, but still, surprise comeplay, that probably won't be such a surprise if it shows up in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:34:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 105,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23387443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonghornLetters/pseuds/LonghornLetters
Summary: Steve Rogers wants two things - for a team (preferably not Dallas) to draft him and to not make an absolute fool of himself on an NFL field.  He's trying to find his own way in a complicated system, but through the ups and downs of transitioning to the pros, he's got more help than he realizes.Tony Stark wants two things also - a face of the franchise-quality quarterback and a bit of that "little life" he's always just kind of ignored up to now.  He's trying to find the work-life balance everyone keeps telling him he needs, but the things he wants can sometimes come from unexpected places.Slow-burn friends to lovers.Alternate Universe - Sports/Professional American Football
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Stony NFL AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1682194
Comments: 246
Kudos: 131





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I think the current FBS “playoff” scheme is crap. So...we’re conveniently hopping back to the old-school BCS model because while it was flawed, everyone was aware of its shortcomings instead of pretending it was flawless like people seem content to do with this current model (shhh...this is just my opinion. If you love it, it’s cool, I still love you)  
> Also, Steve’s college (which may or may not be my alma mater) is playing the championship game at the Rose Bowl because when Texas won the national title at the Rose Bowl back in 2005, that was the best game I’ve ever been to in my life, and no, I’ll never be over it.  
> Last thing: I’ve flung a whole bunch of post-2000 players from UT into a blender and hit pulse a few times to build the tail end of Steve’s college experience, so don’t get too attached to these guys...Steve and Nat are the only ones who’ll be hanging around.
> 
> Extra thanks to betheflame and kestrel337 for excellent beta help and advice.

“Rogers!” 

Coach Phillips’ sharp shout brought Steve up short, forcing him to pump fake so he didn’t bounce the football he had lined up to let fly off one of his receivers’ facemasks. 

“Coach?” he asked as he trotted over to the sideline. “I know it looked messy, but we had the route--”

“Son, you were doing fine.” He waved off the explanations queued up behind Steve’s teeth. He sighed. “There’s a girl here to see you. She’s waiting in the film room.”

Steve felt the heat creep up his neck as his teammates behind him started howling about a secret girlfriend.

“Don’t you boys have some routes to be running? We’ve got a bowl game in less than a month.” Phillips shouted at the rest of the offense. 

“Yes, Coach,” they chorused. 

The shuffle of their dissipating footsteps forced Steve to turn back to his head coach. “I’m not sure who’d be here looking for me, sir. I know our practice times, so I’m not--” 

Phillips shook his head. “It’s fine. She works for an old friend of mine. Wants to talk to you about what you’re going to be doing next season.”

Steve scowled down at his hands, watching as he spun the ball against his own palm. “I’m not…” he sighed. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Look, son, just hear what she’s got to say. You can say yes. You can say maybe. Hell, you can tell her you’re leaving football forever after our season ends.”

Steve smirked up at his coach. “Is this a test?”

Phillips rolled his eyes and shoved Steve towards the field house. “Go. Talk to her. Charm her like I know you can.” 

Steve nodded and trotted out the back of the end zone and up the tunnel, still fiddling with the football in his hands. He knew his time playing college ball was almost over, and while he’d had his mom to help him figure out which college recruiters had actually considered him as a whole player and which ones were full of so much bull, he didn’t have her now. What’s more, he’d admitted to himself when the first agent had come sniffing around that she wouldn’t really have been able to help him even if she’d felt up to--

He shook his head, trying to jar himself loose before he could wander too far down that particular path. “That way lies madness,” he murmured. When he got to their film theater, he tapped on the door before just barging in; it wouldn’t do to startle whoever this was, after all.

“Mr. Rogers, please come in,” an attractive redhead smiled at him when he stuck his head around the door. She came over to meet him, hand extended, “I’m Natasha Romanoff.”

“Steve, uh, Steve Rogers,” Steve stammered, before immediately cursing himself. She clearly knew who he was. Rece Davis and Lee Courso mentioned him every Saturday afternoon anyway, so anyone with a TV and basic awareness of college football probably knew who he was.

He tucked the ball he was still carrying under his off arm and reached out to take Ms Romanoff’s hand. Too late, it occurred to him he’d been out running around for over an hour, so his hand was probably a sweaty mess. She didn’t seem fazed, shaking his hand with a bland PR smile firmly in place. 

“Coach said you were asking for me?” he hazarded, letting himself grip the ball in both hands once she’d released him. 

She motioned him towards the front row of seats where her bag leaned next to a pair of chairs that had the little desks pulled out. He wriggled into one of the chairs, sucking in his abs to squeeze around the desk. She slid smoothly into the other seat, pulling a slim notebook and pen out of her bag.

“Did Phillips tell you anything about me?” she asked, clearly only mildly interested in his answer.

He smiled thinly. “He only said you worked for an old friend of his. But since it’s December and I’m a senior, I can guess.”

“I do. I work for an old colleague of his, Abraham Erskine. Erskine hired me to, in his words, ‘give people who know what they’re looking for exactly what they need.’”

“I don’t--I’m not sure what you mean by that, ma’am,” Steve stammered.

She pinned him to his chair with a direct stare. “Do you have plans to enter the Draft, Steve?” 

He shrugged. “I think so. I mean, I’m getting my graphic design degree. But…”

“You’re also one of the highest rated prospects coming out of this class,” she finished for him. 

“Yeah. I mean, Joe got the Heisman, but Coach seems to think hardware won’t matter come draft time.” 

“Smart man,” she allowed. “He’s not alone in thinking that. Quite a few people think you’ve got what it takes to lead a professional club, potentially as a franchise quarterback, individual collegiate accolades or no. My boss agrees, and he sent me to see if we could negotiate for your representation.”

Steve sighed. “I can’t do that until our season is fully over.” He folded the desk back into the arm of his chair and stood to go. “I’m sorry for wasting your time, ma’am, but--”

Natasha shook her head. “You can’t _sign_ with anyone until your season’s over. You and I can have a verbal agreement about representation, and then we formalize once your season ends.”

“I’m not...I’m not sure,” he demurred.

Natasha produced a card from the back of her notebook. “Take my card. Think about it. Let me email you the details of our standard representation. Call me any time.”

“Natalie Rushman?” Steve asked, raising an eyebrow at the name on her business card. 

She smiled. “Strategic decision making. Abraham was willing to take a chance on an immigrant’s kid, but in an old boy’s club like the NFL, Kansas plays better than Kremlin.”

Steve nodded and smiled a little sadly down at her. “I get it. Sometimes you hafta play the game with house rules.”

She stood and patted his arm, her hand gentle on his bare forearm. “I know this is overwhelming. Think about it. I know this game. The one on the field _and_ the one in the front office. Don’t be afraid to let me help you.”

~~*~~

That night, Brennan and Devin, two of his receivers, burst into Steve’s room, all boisterous greetings and friendly slaps to his shoulder. Their arrival also had the blessed result of stopping him from fiddling with his digital portfolio for probably the tenth time. 

“So...” Brennan started, shoving three of Steve’s sketchbooks into a pile so he could collapse onto Steve’s bed.

“Yes?” Steve asked, smiling but not even looking away from his computer.

“B wants to know who your gal was,” Devin finished.

“Just B? Or you too, Dev?” Steve asked, stifling actual laughter now as he clicked publish on the latest arrangement of his body of work.

“I mean, we’re worried about you, Cap,” Devin tried.

Steve swiveled around in his seat and stared at his teammates crowded onto the narrow bed that had come with the apartment. “You think I can’t take care of myself?”

“It’s not that, Cap,” Brennan denied. “We just...you know...we gotta make sure someone’s lookin’ out for you. Secret girlfriends can be a real head trip.“

Steve laughed. “Not that it matters, but she’s not my secret girlfriend.”

“You sure?” Brennan pressed, “I feel like that’s something a guy with a secret girlfriend would say.”

Steve smiled. “You know you two have all the subtlety of a brick to the face,” he said. He held up a hand to stop them when they both opened their mouths to deny it. “The woman who came today was a potential agent.”

“You gonna sign with her?” Brennan asked, blunt as ever.

Steve ran his fingertip over the delicate raised ink on her business card, but shook his head. “Season’s not over yet, so I can’t sign with anyone,” he repeated his words from his conversation with Natasha earlier in the afternoon. “Plus, I may not even get an invite to the Combine. Pretty pointless me having an agent then.”

Both of his receivers made noises of denial. “If you don’t get an invite, then something’s really wrong, Cap.”

“Dev, have you not been saying _all season_ this whole draft process was a racket?” Steve asked with a laugh.

He shrugged. “Sure. I gotta say though, if you’re in the market for an agent, my cousin Kyler got really lucky with his guy. Dude’s like a second dad. If you can get with him, I’d say do that.”

“As practical as that solution sounds, I can really only go with someone who wants to work with me,” Steve pointed out. He pulled the box he’d been using the last four years for German flashcards out of his desk. Behind each lettered divider, the nouns, adjectives, and verbs had all given way to a host of business cards, each from someone who claimed they’d be able to make him a household name in the NFL. They each represented a clamor for his attention that grated on him and made his palms sweat whenever he opened the box. “What’s his name? I’ll see if I’ve heard from him.”

“Erskine,” Devin answered. “Old white dude. Used to be a coach or analyst or something. He’s legit.” 

“Abraham Erskine?” Steve asked. He drummed his fingers on the top of the box while his mind raced ahead. If Dev’s cousin was so thrilled with him, surely Natasha merited a closer look.

Dev shrugged again. “I guess so, yeah. He’s got like a daughter or something that works for him too. Ky’s talked to her a few times when Abe was in the middle of something. Says she knows her shit.”

“Language, Dev,” Steve admonished gently. 

“Okay, Grandpa Rogers” they both agreed as they dissolved into helpless laughter. Steve just shook his head and smiled; their familiar jibes well-worn and comfortable.

“Swearing only means you don’t have anything more intelligent to say,” he retorted primly, which only made his receivers laugh harder.

“Well as much as I want to continue this...decidedly weird and oddly helpful conversation, it’s getting close to that time, boys,” Steve said with a nod at his alarm clock as their laughter faded into occasional chuckles. 

“You ready to be free from all this? Classes? Curfews? Us?” Brennan asked as he and Devin clambered off Steve’s bed and made for the door.

He shook his head. “I don’t mind it. You guys make it easy.”

“Five years and the dude still won’t say y’all,” Devin griped good-naturedly. “Well, that’s good, Cap, ‘cause we need this last win.”

“We’ll get ‘em,” Steve promised.

They exchanged their goodnights, and Steve closed his door behind them with a small sigh. It was nearing midnight, and he should really be going to bed himself, but Devin’s insistence that both Erskine and Natasha ‘knew their shit’ kept coming back to him as he showered and brushed his teeth.

Back in his room, he went back to his desk and picked up Natasha’s card again. “She said ‘call me anytime,’” he murmured to himself as he grabbed his phone and dialed. He listened to it ring until it clicked over to voicemail, then took a deep breath and spoke his willingness to discuss representation to the empty air of his dorm room and the silent ear of her voicemail. 

~~*~~

_The royalty of college football is in assembly here at the Rose Bowl, and the Longhorns, led by senior quarterback Steve Rogers, are looking for that perfect Hollywood-scripted ending to a season that has already been a story straight out of a movie. The Longhorns and the Tigers come into this matchup ranked one and two with nary a whisper of dissent, so whoever comes out on top will be this year’s undisputed national champion. Chris, these Longhorns are less than two minutes away from their fourth national title, their first since 1970. All Rogers needs to lock this game up is one more first down to keep the ball out of Tiger hands, but at third and four and facing a stout Tigers defense, Rogers certainly has his work cut out for him._

Steve trotted over to the sideline with the rest of the offense as the ref announced the Tigers calling their last timeout. He glanced up at the clock; a minute and a half meant they really did need this first down.

“Boys,” Phillips barked, “now we got too much time left to just let this one go, so when we go out there, I need you to move that ball just four more yards. We’re gonna keep it on the ground, so it should be next to impossible to screw up. Give me those four yards, and we’re takin’ home a shiny trophy that’ll have all y’all’s lip prints on it for the rest of time.”

Jamaal, Steve’s favorite running back, caught his eye across the huddle and pursed his lips in an exaggerated kiss. Steve choked on the drink of water he’d just taken as he started laughing.

“Rogers!” 

“Sorry, Coach,” Steve replied. “Won’t happen again.” He waited until Phillips turned to the o-line to remind them that they knew how to create creases and blew Jamaal a kiss back.

“Okay, y’all know what to do. Ya been doin’ it all season. Just one more play. Bleed the clock then snap it.” Phillips nodded around the huddle. “Now get out there and get it done.”

As they broke for the field, Steve grabbed Jamaal’s elbow. “You’re my go-to. Hands like glue.” He nodded just once, never breaking stride. “Three clap count,” he said to his center who nodded too.

Steve settled into the pistol, glancing to his right when Jamaal stepped up next to him. He took a breath. One crease. That’s all they needed. A glance around told him everyone was ready. 

One. 

Two. 

Three.

The ball hit his hands cleanly, and he handed off smoothly. He dropped back going through his pass prep motion as if he still had the ball in hand, and smiled as the free safety took the bait and came straight for him. The center and the right guard started pushing toward the far sideline while the right tackle pushed towards the near sideline. Jamaal slipped through the gap they made like it was nothing. A stutter step and he was free. He made it a few yards past the down marker before a couple of the Tigers’ secondary brought him down, but it didn’t matter. It was enough.

He jumped up and flipped the ball to the ref then ran to meet Steve as he was running forward to the new line. Steve wrapped him up in a rib cracking hug. “You did it!”

“Nah, Cap, _we_ did it,” he whooped, laughing as he and Steve pounded each other on the back.

A glance up at the clock confirmed Steve could call the play every offense longed to call in a game like this. He ran up to meet the line. “We’re going under center for this. Victory formation, boys.” 

“Hell yeah!” the entire offensive line chorused.

“You better warm those hands up, Cap,” Dallas called over his shoulder as they lined up. 

Steve rolled his eyes. “Cold hands warm heart,” he snarked back. 

“Pretty sure it’s ‘clear eyes, full hearts,’ Cap,” Dallas tossed over his shoulder.

“Okay, okay, focus,” Steve called them back to attention. A glance at the clock and he settled under his center for the last time as a college player. “Release on two..one... _two_.”

Dallas snapped, Steve touched his knee to the turf, and the celebration was on. 

The entire team flooded the field, screaming and laughing. Devin threw his helmet in the air, and half the defense scattered like it was a live grenade. 

“Look at you, son, national champion!” Phillips crowed as he swept Steve up into a bear hug. He released him, but left his hand on his shoulder. “Your mama would’a been so proud of you.”

Steve smiled wetly, thankful he still had his helmet on. “Thanks, Coach. I...just...thanks.”

“Take your helmet off. Get ready to talk to those reporters,” Phillips ordered gruffly. “You know those media types don’t like to wait on their story”

A man in an ESPN bib grabbed Steve by his shoulder pads and maneuvered him next to a diminutive woman with bright blonde hair and bold red lipstick with a vaguely predatory gleam in her eye. She kept her hands off him long enough for him to pull his helmet off, then gripped his elbow, clearly unwilling to miss out on getting the first post-game interview with the winning quarterback by letting him get swept up by his teammates. 

The spotlight flashed on, she turned on bright media smile and started speaking. “So, Steve, congratulations on this win. What were your thoughts in that final minute?”

“Thank you. I just…” he hesitated. Probably shouldn’t go into the finer details of clock management and play selection logistics; no one outside actual players really cared after all. “I just wanted to make sure I could protect all the hard work our team did all throughout the rest of the game. Make sure all their sacrifices and great plays weren’t for nothing.”

“You were snubbed in the Heisman voting, and everyone had the Longhorns as underdogs. How did it feel to come in here and prove everyone wrong?” 

“Well, football’s a team sport, after all,” Steve answered, running a hand through his sweaty hair in an effort to bring some sort of order to whatever was going on up there and, he hoped, hide the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. “We’re all out here playing for each other every down and every play. The personal accolades are nice, but they’re not the be all, you know?” He shrugged and smiled. “At the end of the day, when we play together, we win together.”

Her answering smile took on more of a forced edge at Steve’s clear refusal to play into her dramatic subplots. She tried one more angle; the one everyone wanted to know. “So now that your senior season is over, what’s next? Will you be entering the Draft?”

Steve glanced over at the stands and caught Natasha’s eye. She was sitting in the front row, iPhone in hand, clearly waiting on his response just as much as this reporter. She smirked and quirked an eyebrow at him, a silent question.

He sighed. He really didn’t want to give ESPN anything to chew, regurgitate and misinterpret until something more interesting happened. “This night is about my team. We’ve worked so hard, so we’re just going to enjoy this win.” 

She blinked a couple times, clearly aware he’d brushed her off, but she also knew she couldn’t press him without looking like she was digging for a scoop. She finally settled on “Enjoy your win.” 

He offered her one last self-effacing smile. “Thanks.”

Good Lord. These reporters just didn’t know when to let something lie. He ran back over to the rest of the team who’d gathered in front of the student section, wrapping an arm around Jamaal to slow himself down. “Still can’t believe we did it,” he murmured. 

“No kidding,” Jamaal answered with a bemused shake of his head. “National champs forever, man.”

The drumroll from the band cut them off, and they turned and belted out the alma mater with their fellow students for the final time.

“So what’s next for you?” Jamaal asked as they made their way back to midfield for the formal trophy presentation. “I mean, you walked in December.”

Steve shrugged. “Life of dissipation and regret, probably.”

“Oh, so you _are_ entering the Draft,” Dev guessed, swinging off Steve’s other arm as they walked. 

Steve just laughed and shoved him off. “You were there when my about-to-be agent returned my call.”

Dallas, who had beaten them to midfield, was handing out roses from the massive arrangement that sat at the base of the stage, and he handed one to Steve with a wink. He’d clearly overheard. “Everything’s comin’ up roses, Cap.”

They were interrupted when the co-chairs of the Rose Bowl Committee stepped out to begin the trophy presentations. The offense crowded together, still trying to wrestle their on-field shirts on over their pads and knocking each other’s hats off. 

“You think she can lift that?” Steve murmured to Dallas as the spindly woman from the committee reached out to present Coach Phillips with the Rose Bowl Trophy.

“Coach’ll help her out,” Dallas murmured back. “He wouldn’t let a lady struggle.” He took his hat off and held it over his heart. “Now, ma’am, if you’ll just allow me,” he rumbled in a passable imitation of their indomitable coach.

Steve doubled over laughing. “Why didn’t they just let the man do the bowl trophy?” he asked.

“Come on, Steve, it’s the 21st century, rail thin ladies with no muscle mass can lift heavy trophies too.”

The woman had finally wrestled both the bowl trophy and the AFCA trophy into Phillips’ hands, and the man with her stepped forward to announce the MVP awards.

“It’d better be you,” Dallas muttered to Steve. “We’d’a been a mess out there with anyone else.”

“The offensive MVP for the Rose Bowl is quarterback Steven Rogers.”

A chorus of hoots and howls from his teammates rained down on Steve as he mounted the stage to shake hands with the committee members and accept the MVP trophy.

“Proud’a you, kid,” Phillips muttered thickly. Steve wrapped him up in a one arm hug, pleased he’d made Phillips so proud.

“I’ll let you hold the coaches’ trophy if you promise me you won’t drop it.”

Steve set down his trophy and the rose Dallas had given him. “Promise, Coach.” Phillips passed over the shockingly heavy Waterford Crystal football, and for a moment, all Steve could do was stare at the way the stadium lights refracted through the beveled edges of the cutwork. 

“Hold it up!” someone in the defense hollered.

Steve grinned and lifted the coaches’ trophy up for the whole team to see. A roar went up from the team and their fans, who were still crowded in the stands like it was gametime. 

“We’d never have made it without you, Coach,” Steve said as he brought the trophy back down, patted it once, then passed it back to Phillips. “You brought out the best in us.”

Phillips sniffed once loudly. “Now don’t get like that, Rogers. Go hang around with those silly receivers of yours. Act your age for once.” He turned and handed the coaches’ trophy to their blindside linebacker, giving Steve an out to slip back to his friends. 

As the awards started to break up, Jamaal grabbed him and Dev and dragged them towards the sideline. “Come on, my mama wants her Rose Bowl pictures.” When they made it over to the barricade, the three of them gripped the roses Dallas had handed them in their teeth, wrapped their arms around each other, and grinned up at Ms. Desiree as she snapped a handful of photos on the fancy SLR camera Jamaal and his brothers had all pitched in on for her. 

“Now just my baby,” she called to them. Steve and Dev stepped aside and watched her click away on her oldest son. 

“Now you, Stevie, come on.” Steve laughed and held his rose in his teeth when she turned her camera on him. “Did your mama come, Steve?” she asked when she’d exhausted her shutter finger. 

Steve blushed. “She...ah...she…”

Ms. Desiree waved him off. “I know she’s been poorly. Her email address the same? I’ll just send them to her.”

“Uh, could you just share them with me on Google Drive and I’ll make sure she sees them?” he asked sheepishly. He’d finally worked up the nerve to deactivate his mom’s email address last month. The concept of reopening it felt like digging a knife into a just-healed wound

“Of course, hon,” she answered. “Yours still the same?”

He nodded.

“You got it. Now go, enjoy your celebration.”

~~*~~

Hours later, after another interminable round of interviews and photographs and after Phillips had handed him the game ball to go with his new MVP trophy, calling Steve “the best damn thing the state of New York ever produced,” Steve sat in the overstuffed armchair in his hotel room tired but unable to settle himself down to actually sleep. So instead he sat in the dim light of the reading lamp cradling the game ball loosely in his arms, letting its significance slip through him in the quiet.

A soft knock at his door forced him out of his seat. Natasha was standing on the other side. He couldn’t really explain why, but he was glad to see her, so he waved her in then retreated back to his armchair. He caught a glimpse of her trailing her fingers over the edge of the MVP trophy peeking out of his suitcase. 

“Hey, kid,” Natasha said, dropping into the chair across from him.

“Hey,” he answered. “Wait, kid? Aren’t you younger than me?”

She laughed. “Smooth, Rogers. You’ll go far with lines like that.” She pulled a folder with his name on it out of her bag. “Quick bit of business, then I’ll get out of your hair.” 

He nodded idly, content to let her ruthless efficiency carry him along, at least for tonight.

She started flipping through the hard copy of the document he’d been reading and rereading and discussing with her for weeks. “So I know we talked about this already, but are you sure you don’t want any sort of Combine prep?”

He shook his head. “I got a degree for a reason. If no one wants me as I am, I can get a regular job.”

“Social media coaching? This is a big one, especially now.”

“Don’t do social media,” he answered easily. He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Can’t coach what ain’t there.”

“It’s an easy way to connect with teams during the draft process and with the fans once you’re drafted. Most players have Twitter, Instagram...something,” she pressed.

“Most, but not all, right?” he asked, cracking one eye open to catch her gaze.

She sighed. “Point. For now. We’re going to revisit this one, though, I promise.”

“Not tonight though,” he murmured, closing his eyes again.

“Okay, last thing,” she shook her head down at the page in front of her. “You refused the agency’s line of credit for post-draft, pre-contract expenses.”

Steve nodded.

“Are you sure? Talk to me about this one.”

Steve pulled himself back up to sitting. “I’m…” he drummed his fingers against the ball in his lap, thinking. “You ever watched The Godfather?” At her nod, he continued. “Whenever I hear ‘credit’ that’s what I think of. That part where Don Corleone is doing favors on the day of his daughter’s wedding and he _says_ all he wants is friendship. But you _know_ that’s not it. Not really. He knows you owe him, and he can call that in whenever he wants for whatever he wants. That kind of power over someone? That’s credit to me.” 

Natasha nodded. “I get that. But we’re not going to ask you to stick a horse head in someone’s bed if--”

“Don’t want it. Won’t take it.”

“I just don’t want you to end up owing someone else instead,” she insisted quietly.

“I won’t. I’ve got a fund that’ll hold me till I’m drafted or till I find a job.” All those hot summers spent gutting and helping restore classic cars for a luxury auto auctioneer in Red Hook plus the final payout from his mom’s life insurance policy meant he didn’t need to rely on anyone else while he found his feet, wherever they landed.

“Okay,” she muttered, clearly not okay. She turned the pages towards him with a small, genuine smile. “Time for ink and promises.”

Steve idly clicked the Pilot pen she handed him while he skimmed the document one last time, and when he reached the clauses they’d individualized, he started scribbling his initials next to them. When he got to the final signature line, he glanced up at Natasha. “You sure you want me?”

“Sure you want me?” She asked back.

“Full name?” he asked, pen poised over the line. 

“Full name. Sign, print, date and date,” she confirmed, pointing at each line.

“Feels like that bit in Faust when he signs his life away to the Devil” he murmured as he wrote.

Natasha grinned at him. “I may have my hands in everything, but I’m not the bad guy. Promise.” She shuffled the papers back into their folder then swatted him on the arm with it. “Go get some sleep. ESPN is going to crawl up your ass and live there before you can think.”

Steve wrinkled his nose, but he was laughing. “That’s gross. See you tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. We’re going to make a great team, Rogers.”

Steve rose to walk her to the door. A thought occurred to him right as she stepped out into the hall. “Just one thing, Nat?”

She turned back to face where he still stood framed in the hotel door. “Shoot.”

“I don’t want to play in Dallas.”

 **_ESPN Breaking News:_ ** _Senior QB Steve Rogers signs with an agent and officially declares his intent to enter the NFL Draft._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Let’s be honest, the NFL Combine is a giant meat market, and the fact that it’s a televised circus only adds to that. Also please enjoy some handwaving with your Combine experience. Everything I know about the actual process comes from a football coach friend of mine, vaguely listening to analysts talk it to death on SportsCenter, and seeing snippets of it out of context.
> 
> Once again, thanks and love to Betheflame and Kestrel337 for incomparable beta work, cheerleading, and "hey, this doesn't make a lick of sense"-ing.

The first day of the NFL Combine trapped Steve in the Indianapolis Convention Center and bounced him from registration to orientation and, finally, into his first round of interviews as a prospect with the national media. 

Questions about his Heisman snub and the national title game felt like more iterations of the same vaguely irritating routine by now, so he trotted out his practiced and well-worn answers about winning as a team being more important than individual accolades and how proud he’d been to help bring a title back to Texas. But when they started in with questions about where he wanted to play as a pro and what problems he anticipated with transitioning to the pace and defensive schemes, Steve had to clench his hands under the desk as he struggled to formulate answers. 

How could he  _ possibly _ know where he’d end up? And unless he ended up in Denver or Cleveland, the only two teams truly desperate for a quarterback, he probably wouldn’t see too much game time outside of the preseason anyway. When the bell chimed discreetly to let him know his time was up, Steve offered the pool of reporters a final smile before he hurried out of the room, relieved to be released. Something about the camera’s unblinking eye made him feel stretched thin and on the verge of losing his temper. 

Natasha met him outside the interview room with a nodded hello and a litre of water. He chugged nearly half of it while she steered him towards the exit.

“I was watching you on the closed circuit,” she said, jabbing the button to trip the walk signal. “You looked good. Didn’t oversell yourself. Sounded like a team player.”

Steve shrugged. “Pretty easy, since it’s a team sport.”

“Don’t be obtuse,” she scolded. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he conceded with a nod. “It’s just…” He shrugged helplessly, unable to articulate the ridiculous media spectacle of the whole thing.. 

She nodded, seeming to understand what he couldn’t put into words. “It is that.”

When they made it back to his room, Natasha grabbed his wrist. “This is where I leave you. I’m going to spend tomorrow talking to as many GMs and coaches as I can get time with while you’re doing…” she waved her hand at him from head to toe “all of what you do. Anyone you want me to prioritize?”

“New York would be nice. Close to home. California’s got nice weather.” Steve shrugged. “I don’t think I’ve got what it takes to play well someplace really cold, but I trust you.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Texas?”

“You know how I feel about Texas. Both teams.”

She nodded. “Just gotta double check. Go knock ‘em dead, Rogers.”

The cool, quiet hotel room was a welcome relief after all the hoops he’d had to jump through all day. Steve sped through his evening routine, but once he’d pulled on a pair of sweats and a worn-soft T-shirt and lain down, he couldn’t actually sleep. He tossed and turned for twenty minutes before he gave up and flicked on the bedside lamp. After double-checking his alarm, he dug his sketchbook out of his bag and curled up with it and his pencil case on the tiny loveseat in the hopes that drawing for a bit would settle him down. The room door opened and closed as his roommate for the week came in, but Steve concentrated on his drawing, letting him get settled without the added hassle of a staring contest. 

“This seat taken?”

Steve glanced up at a young man in a UCLA sweatshirt then nodded and gestured to the armchair next to his loveseat. “All yours.” 

The guy dropped into the chair before turning a winning smile on Steve. “Sam. Wilson. Wide receiver.”

Steve set his pencil in the hinge of his sketchbook and took the hand Sam had extended. “Good to meet you, Sam. Steve Rogers. Quarterback.”

Sam laughed. “Oh, I know who  _ you _ are. Damn near everybody in the  _ country _ knows who you are.”

Steve shook his head and went back to shading the mouse he’d been drawing to hide his smile. “You say that like people haven’t heard of the Biletnikoff. Or watched you decimate the USC secondary for three straight seasons.”

“Thanks, man, but you are on another level, and you know it,” Sam responded, still grinning. 

Steve shrugged into his sketchbook and curled his toes against the stiff upholstery on the couch cushions. “We’re all in the same boat now though.”

“What’cha writing?” Sam asked, blessedly changing the subject as he leaned in towards Steve, though not enough to pry.

He flipped his book around and Sam gaped at the intricate maze Steve had sprawled out over the full spread of the pages. On one end, a mouse in practice gear stood on his hind legs while he appeared to be examining the entrance to the maze and on the other, the NFL logo rested as the prize. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Steve murmured. “Trying to...work myself out.”

“I can give you my professional opinion,” Sam offered, with a wry smirk.

“Oh, you can?” Steve teased back.

Sam leaned back in his chair, supremely confident. “Sure. Did a combined BSW/MSW with my focus on counseling. Academic All-American too.”

Steve laughed. “Okay. Diagnose me, doctor.”

“Didn’t get the PhD, but…” he made a show of looking Steve up and down and flipping through his sketchbook, although he didn’t stop on one page long enough to really examine any of Steve’s work. He handed Steve his book back and said, “Anxious. Same as me.”

Steve quirked an eyebrow at him and huffed out a laugh. “Now why on earth would I be anxious about being judged in a rigged game?” 

Sam laughed too, but didn’t deny it. Steve let silence fall between them, but he could feel Sam watching him as he added some more crosshatching to give the logo some dimension before he spoke again. “What kind of counseling?”

Sam stood and started unpacking his suitcase while he answered. “PTSD. I read this book in my freshman lit class...I guess it’s a biography? Dunno, but it was for sure non-fiction. It was about two years in the lives of these two brothers living in the Chicago projects in the late 80s. No one except the dude who wrote the book and their mama even seemed to notice they were struggling. Made me want to do something to help people coming through tough shit.”

“Makes graphic design sound really self-involved,” Steve returned with a self-deprecating smirk. “That’s admirable though, Sam, truly.” He scribbled his initials in the corner under the mouse’s feet then closed his book and tucked it back into his backpack. He checked the time on his phone and groaned. “I guess I should pretend like I’m going to sleep at least.”

“Still got you curfew-trained?” Sam called from the bathroom over the running faucet. 

“I’ve technically only been out of season for a month, so yeah” Steve called back as he plugged his phone back in and rolled himself up in the blankets on his bed.

“Yeah, yeah, fancy pants.” Sam came back in and flopped down on the other bed. “So tell me, how heavy is that crystal football?”

“Heavier than it looks,” Steve answered with a fond smile. He clicked off the bedside lamp and burrowed himself further down. “Phillips only let me hold it if I promised not to drop it,” he said softly into the dark. 

“Freud probably has something to say about that,” Sam returned just as softly.

Sam settled and fell quiet with a soft huff of breath, but Steve lay awake blinking slowly in the dark for a long while yet. He kept trying to picture how the next week would go, what questions, what drills, what problems he would face, but everything he tried to latch onto slipped through his mind like sand. “Enough” he whispered after nearly thirty minutes of going round and round with himself. Closing his eyes, he took a slow breath and started a centering exercise one of his mom’s coworkers had taught him, and he finally relaxed enough to slip into sleep.

~~*~~

The duelling tones of their alarms drove both Steve and Sam out of bed shortly before five the following morning. Steve rolled over and tapped the stop button, unwilling to risk making himself late via the snooze button. 

“Jesus God, why is it so early?” Sam’s voice demanded from under the mound of blankets on his bed.

“Gotta trot the meat out early, I guess,” Steve answered as he shuffled into the bathroom to start getting ready; the early hour making him cranky.

Showered, brushed, and dressed, they grabbed sweatshirts and backpacks and headed downstairs to face the first full day of inspection. “Why do we have media interviews every damn day?” Steve asked, studying his schedule with a faint scowl.

Sam shrugged. “How will ESPN know what to talk about on SportsCenter if we don’t tell them about each exhale?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “This is exactly why I avoided talking to the press if at all humanly possible.”

“Morning, fellas,” Natasha greeted them in the lobby coffees in hand. “I know you’re not one of mine, Wilson, but take this and give us five minutes?”

“I’ll never say no to caffeine,” Sam said, taking the cup she passed him. “Even if it is a bribe. See you in a bit, man.”

Natasha watched him walk off before turning on Steve. “You know who Steve Mariucci is?”

He shrugged. “Sure. He was a coach and now he’s got an announcing gig.”

She nodded and rewarded him with his own cup of coffee. “He wants to interview you for the Combine Week special he’s doing for the NFL Network. Last year it included getting quarterbacks on the board and a light workout and, of course, a one on one interview.”

“Why?”

Natasha stared at Steve like he’d sprouted a second head. “Please tell me you’re joking. His opinion carries a lot of weight, especially with the National and Bletso affiliated teams. It can be a powerful voice to have, especially if your performance in the actual drills leaves something to be desired.”

Steve turned and started heading towards the convention center. He was in the last group for measuring in and Cybex, but he had to get through team and media interviews first. A whole day of people prodding at him both literally and figuratively filled him with more than a little existential dread, and then to add Mariucci on top of all that. “Do I have to decide right this instant?”

“Not right  _ this _ instant, but his team wants an answer by this evening. Seven was what his producer said to me.”

He nodded. “I can decide by seven.”

“Who’re you talking to today?” Natasha asked, clearly choosing to ignore his recalcitrance for the moment.

Steve frowned down at his phone. “Um, three teams, I think? When I checked this morning, I had times set up for Atlanta, Denver, and one just flagged as ‘You Know Who We Are.’”

She nodded. “I talked to people with both Denver and Atlanta last night. Oh, and the head of scouting for New York.”

“Gotta narrow New York down, Nat,” Steve admonished gently.

“Avengers. Used to be the Jets before Tony Stark bought them out three or four seasons ago and completely rebranded them. During that midlife freakout he had.”

“I remember that. Didn’t he almost get killed racing cars in Monaco or something right around the same time?” Steve asked. “And isn’t he kind of...doing what he wants in spite of ESPN and Goodell’s weekly aneurysms about it?”

Natasha nodded. “Yes...to both. He’s doing what he wants with them, for sure, but it seems to be working from where I’m standing. They had losing seasons the past eight years before he bought the team. Granted they still had a losing record the first two years he owned them, but they were eight and seven last year and just missed a wild card spot. 

“I thought Stephen Smith was gonna swoon live on air when Stark announced he was taking their scouting back to a completely in-house operation during the Combine last year, but since all their draft picks from last year are still active on someone’s roster, you can’t argue with results. They’re in the market for a franchise quarterback from what I’ve heard. Signing a journeyman like Fitzsimmons won’t be a long term solution to Ryan retiring and everyone knows it.”

“Well, then they must be who I’ve got first. I feel like Stark’s operation is the only one that would send out interviews as cocky as ‘you know who we are’,” Steve said, stopping outside the tiny meeting room with the Avengers logo taped to the door. “Any advice?”

Natasha seemed to give his question serious consideration before she finally spoke. “I’ve met their head scout a few times. Most recently when I was helping Abe with Kylar’s draft. Rhodes is a good guy. Doesn’t like bullshit. I think he sends a mix of his minions and the analytics team to do these sorts of timed interviews, but they’ll appreciate a straight talker like he would.”

“I can handle that,” Steve replied, smiling at her. “Wish me luck?”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it Rogers.” She thumped him on the shoulder. “You go do your thing. I’ll go do mine. We’ll get you drafted yet.”

~~*~~

Walking out onto the turf inside Lucas Oil Stadium three days later finally made the idea that Steve might end up eventually playing on a pro field seem real; although, the days of tests, drills, late nights, and early mornings had Steve practically ready to give up on the NFL entirely. Shuttling from one event to the next with little time to think or breathe while talking heads on cable dissected his every move made him feel like a cheap performing monkey. 

He’d flatly refused the extended interview with Steve Mariucci, citing wanting to save his strength and focus for the official workout. In reality, the prospect of an untimed interview made him nauseous. Letting someone ask him questions and not having some sort of out really just meant they could ask him anything; the spectre of questions like ‘we haven’t seen your mom as much in the stands this season’ still made him anxious any time he found himself in front of a camera for any length of time. 

So he’d told Natasha no. 

Then insisted when she’d tried to push him on it. She’d finally let it go, but not before she’d jabbed him in the chest with a surprisingly sharp finger and told him that she couldn’t help him if he wasn’t willing to help himself.

An officious looking man with a combover that was fooling exactly no one reminded them that they would go through their workouts in the same small groups they’d been with all week before he started telling them they’d be following the on-field coach’s instructions for which passing routes to run when. Finally, he gave them the group order and told them the first group had 15 minutes to get warmed up before they’d start their time on-field. 

Steve rolled his eyes. His group was the last to go. “Damn,” he muttered.

“At least we’re not in the middle,” Sam offered as they made their way over to the sidelines for what would probably be most of a day spent waiting.

“I mean, that’s true, but I’m just ready to be done, ya know?”

They reached the sideline and dropped their bags, but instead of settling on the bench, Steve flopped onto the turf next to his backpack. 

“You want to not sit on the ground like a heathen?” Sam asked, nudging him with his toe.

“God no. Those benches are only wide enough to sit on them long enough to get your ass chewed for ‘not capitalizing in the red zone.’ I’ll stay here, thanks” Steve answered with a smirk. 

Sam sat down on the turf next to him. “That’s a good point. Kelly always told us if we wanted to sit so bad, he’d find someone else who wanted to stand to replace us.”

Sam started digging in his bag, then grinned as he surfaced with a pair of tangled headphones and a novel. While Sam tried to untangle his earbuds, Steve took the opportunity to rifle around in his own backpack for a moment before he came up with his sketchbook and pencil case. 

Sam grunted triumphantly then plugged the newly straightened cable into his phone.

“What’cha listening to?” Steve asked absently as he flipped pages in search of a blank one.

“Marvin Gaye,” Sam answered. He extended one of his earbuds towards Steve when he looked up. “Want one?” 

Steve smiled. “Sure.” 

“So why Marvin Gaye?” Steve asked after the first song.

“Why not?” Sam was laying on his back watching the first group finish their warm up upside down.

“Dunno. It’s good, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not…” he sighed. “Most of the receivers at Texas liked something to get them hyped before a workout or a game.”

“My mama says it’s everything you need jammed onto one album.” He shrugged, the turf rustling against his shirt. “Reminds me of her when she can’t come to my games. Calms me down. Gets my mind right.”

Steve blinked sharply to keep his focus on the page in front of him. “Yeah. That’s--yeah.”

“What about you? What does your mama say is everything you need jammed onto one album?”

Steve laughed a little wetly. “I don’t…” he took a deep breath, praying his voice would stay steady. “She never really says--said.” Another breath. “She listened to a lot of really old stuff. Andrews Sisters. Sinatra. A little Elvis. Some really sad jazz when she got to missing my dad.”

Sam reached out for his shoulder but diverted at the last second and put his hand on Steve’s forearm instead. “You okay?”

Steve shook his head, willing his memories to retreat. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just...I’m fine.”

“Okay.” Sam didn’t look convinced, but he also seemed willing to let it go. “What about on gameday?” he asked, trying to change the subject. In that moment, Steve kind of loved him for it. “You say your receivers like to get hype like that’s not you.”

“It’s not. Not really.” Steve added some shading to give his drawing some shadow. “Depends on the game really, but I like to feel focused. Doesn’t do anyone any good if the quarterback’s too wound up to make the play.”

“Very true.” 

They lapsed into companionable silence. Steve dug out his box of spare lead when his pencil stopped rattling, but otherwise they just existed next to each other, waiting for their turn on the field, the sun slanting through the massive windows their only real indication time was passing. Sam eventually switched to Sam Cooke, murmuring something about a massive back catalogue.

“Can you play some Loretta Lynn after this?” Steve asked quietly.

Sam shot him a  _ look _ out of the corner of his eye. “How does a New York boy end up liking something so…”

“Country?” Steve offered. At Sam’s nod, he smiled. “Phillips loves her. He told me once my mom reminded him of her. Something about them both being a pair of hardworking, take no...prisoners...kind of women.”

“Well alright then,” Sam smiled, queuing it up. He rolled over, and watched Steve draw for a while. “Is that a barrel of monkeys doing the Combine workouts?”

Steve glanced over, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Am I wrong though? We’re all just performing monkeys this week. Go here, do this, say that. I could add one on a unicycle if you think this is too subtle?”

“What’re they…?”

“It’s the CandyLand board.” Steve shrugged. “Seemed apt.”

“Please tell me you’re going to start drawing political cartoons if this whole football thing doesn’t pan out.”

“Maybe. Maybe draw for a comic book company or animation studio. I can imitate style well enough.” Steve sighed. “I’m just trying to avoid advertising. Seems soulless.”

“You do appreciate the irony of that statement as we sit here reduced to numbers and positions.”

Steve laughed. “I do.”

Before Sam could reply, one of Combover’s minions came over to tell them their group was next. 

“Finally,” Steve muttered, throwing his pencil and eraser back in their bag and sitting up to pull his cleats on. 

“Say finally like you don’t like hanging out with me,” Sam teased, knocking his shoulder into Steve’s upper arm.

“I definitely do. But you know how it is…”

“Ready to stop talking and start doing.” Sam nodded. “I gotcha, man.”

Sam tugged his headphones out and started shoving them back in his bag, but Steve’s hand on his wrist stopped him. He looked up and Steve held out a rubber band. “So you don’t have to untangle them next time.”

Sam took the rubber band and flapped it at Steve. “You are a true gentleman.” He bound his headphones up neatly then tugged his own cleats on before digging a roll of tape out of his bag. “You taping?”

Steve shook his head. “No defenders. Straight drops. I don’t see the need. You guys’re running pretty basic routes, so unless you’ve got an ankle issue, I think you’ll be fine.”

Sam dropped it back into his bag. “Thank god, that is such a hassle. Kelly claims it keeps our ankles safe, but I played football for ten years without it and I was fine.”

They stood and started running through some basic flexibility warm ups and stretching, stopping when another one of Combover’s people came by to check the brand of their cleats. Steve and Sam exchanged eyerolls as he demanded to see the logos on their shoes then nodded primly at their Nike and Under Armour shoes before moving on to check the next person. Finally, after a reminder that they would have 15 minutes to warm up on the field, they were turned loose. 

When the bell signaling the end of warmups went, Steve jogged an easy 40 back to midfield to meet up with the rest of the group he’d be running with. 

“Hey, Rogers. Way to come up for air from your boyfriend,” one of them, Brock Rumlow, jabbed, shoving hard at Steve’s shoulder.

“You’re funny,” Steve muttered, rolling his eyes even as he felt his gut clench. These sorts of innuendos were the exact reason he’d remained resolutely single in college. 

“What was that, Rogers?” Rumlow snapped.

Steve ignored the bait in favor of trying to get the rest of their group ready for the field. “Guys, this is our chance to show these teams what we can do. We’re ready for this. Let’s go out and be great.” 

The announcement came over the PA that they were starting with rhythm passing, and as the first quarterback in the group, Steve stepped into position at midfield for his first pass. 

He caught the eye of the first tight end up as he lined up on Steve’s right. Once he got the nod, Steve slapped the ball to indicate the snap and started his drop. One step, two steps, breathe, release. The end caught the ball right in stride, grinning over at Steve as he made the grab. Steve nodded back at him, smiling too, and the afternoon was on. 

They worked short- and mid-range throws to the middle and right side of the field for close to an hour before they took a quick water break then switched to the left side of the field and repeated the process. After nearly two hours of throwing, the announcement came for a break before the last push of the afternoon with long-range passes. 

“Can I tell you how much I hate long bombs,” Steve muttered as he and Sam converged at one of the aid stations. As far as Steve was concerned, long throws didn’t involve as much finesse as throws designed to respond to actual routes. Plus in his experience, the further he had to throw and his receiver had to run, the less likely they were to make a solid connection. 

“Why? Gets you on the highlight reels,” Sam said with a smirk.

“Gets your shoulder all jacked up too,” Steve answered. 

Sam nodded. “Fair point. Fly routes aren’t my favorite either. Takes my legs out.” He thumped Steve on his off shoulder. “You’re looking good out there, man. Smooth. Like you know what you’re doing.”

Steve smiled. “Thanks. You are too.” He shook his throwing arm out as they walked back towards the field. “Let’s show ‘em what we can do.”

Sam grinned. “Absolutely.” 

The workout organizers reversed their order for the final segment, so Steve got to watch the other quarterbacks in his group take their shots before he’d have the chance. Watching Joe throw bomb after bomb, Steve could acknowledge without bitterness why he’d come first in the Heisman voting.

“Jealous Rogers?” Rumlow asked, coming to stand next to him with another thwack on his throwing arm.

“Not particularly,” Steve replied evenly, letting his right side sag to absorb the weight of Brock’s “friendly” horseplay. “Why, are you?”

Rumlow shrugged. “Not particularly,” he mimicked. He hung at Steve’s shoulder for another few minutes until his number was called, not saying anything, but still just being his vaguely irritating self. He smacked Steve one more time on the shoulder as a farewell. “We should hang, Rogers. Get that stick out of your ass.”

Steve clenched his jaw, trapping a sharp rejection behind his teeth. The idea of ‘hanging’ with someone like Brock Rumlow made his skin crawl. He didn’t like the way Rumlow thought simply being good at football meant he could do and say whatever he wanted. 

“Number 12, Rogers.”

“You can do this,” Steve muttered to himself. He shook out his arms then started jogging to midfield.

“There’s four receivers, so you’ll get twelve downfield throws. Three to each sideline and three to the middle. Your drop and release will come out of the shotgun” the NFL suit monitoring the on-field workout explained in a bored tone, clearly ready as ready to be finished with his day as Steve was. He looked up at Steve, “any questions?”

Steve shook his head.

“Take a couple minutes, get a feel for the turf, then let us know when you’re ready.” 

Steve nodded. He turned back to the stretch of grass in front of him, “caught” a snap empty handed, then started a practice drop. Five steps back, two to settle, raised his off hand to help aim, and mimed releasing a long pass. He felt good. No sense dragging this out, then. “Ready?” he asked the receivers lined up on the left hash.

The first one, a guy from OU that Steve vaguely remembered having an impressively acrobatic catch during the Bedlam game nodded and gave Steve a thumbs-up.

Steve picked up the ball waiting for him on the turf and stood back from the line, picturing the rest of a shotgun lineup around him. He let himself go calm, steady, ready for a bigger release. He slapped the ball to get his first route going. The guy from OU took off running down the left sideline, and Steve dropped back five steps, letting the power build in his legs. He took a couple steps to settle himself and tighten his whole core before he released a bomb down the sideline. As soon as he let the ball go, Steve knew it was overthrown, he’d let his adrenaline creep into his throw, and his nerves showed in the excessive powerl. Thankfully, while his receiver had to step on the gas to get to the ball, he only had to extend enough to make the catch and didn’t actually leave his feet. 

Sam stepped up to the line and smirked over at Steve. “You got this,” he mouthed.

Steve triggered the play and Sam pelted down the sideline, his efficient run demonstrating why he was one of the top receivers in the college game. Steve’s release felt much smoother this time, less adrenaline powered and more under his control. In the end, Sam barely had to extend his hands as the ball dropped right into the cradle of his arms.

After that, they fell into a rhythm. Snap, drop, settle, release. Every time Steve settled he could hear Phillips reminding him “Son, the smoother your feet, the calmer your shoulders. Keep that ball on track.” Throwing over the middle of the field, he could remember the quarterback coach at Texas, a man named Saunders who was never satisfied with anything, telling him “the sooner you release it, the more control you got and the more time your man’s got to fix his route.” He let training and practicality take over and he went through his motion almost on autopilot until the bell went.

After the last throw, Steve collapsed at the line, done in every conceivable way. He rolled onto his back and lay at the center hash, eyes closed, breathing in the slightly rubbery smell of the beads in the turf. A gentle toe nudging him just under his ribs finally made him crack an eye open.

“Nice job, man,” Sam said with a grin. “People might want to actually draft your ass in a couple months.”

Steve grinned back, relieved they were finished. “Let’s go somewhere fun for dinner.”

Sam reached out to pull Steve to his feet. “Absolutely.”

_ That’s going to wrap it up for the on-field workouts for the quarterbacks, tight ends, and receivers. We’ve seen some impressive work today from some of the top prospects in the country, but one of the most impressive performances today has come from Steve Rogers. That’s right, Rich, Rogers spent today being as clean and calm in the pocket as we’ve seen him be all season with Texas. His drop step patterns have been impressive, and, most importantly, he’s not making his receivers do a lot of extra work. He’s just been dropping those passes in and making it look effortless. _

~~*~~ 

Cleaned up from their workout, Steve and Sam went out for dinner at a nearby restaurant to celebrate the end of their Combine experience. While they’d waited on a table, a text from Natasha promised she would be having a sit-down with him once she finished her last meeting for the night.

“I don’t think you understand,” Sam said as the hostess led them to a table, “how glad I am this dog and pony show is over. Now I just gotta figure out what to do with all this gear I’ll never wear again.”

“Workout clothes,” Steve suggested with a smirk and an eye roll, sliding into the booth across from him. “I mean, what better way to prove you’re cooler than the guy on the bench next to you than with a Combine uni?”

Sam only responded with a matching eye roll.

“Honestly, though, if it wasn’t for you, I’d have lost my damn mind. This week has been completely ridiculous,” Steve said.

“Got some good stories out of this week for sure,” Sam agreed. “Minnesota sat me in front of one of those fans we use to prevent heat stroke in the summers till my hands and feet went numb then made me bench.”

Steve wrinkled his nose. “Why on earth would they make you do that?”

“I mean, they’re way north. Guess they wanna know if I can control myself in the cold. I only got like ten good reps in though, so who knows, for real.”

“New York wanted to know if I’d rather fight a hundred duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck,” Steve offered with a laugh. 

“And?” Sam prompted. “What would you rather fight?”

“Neither. A pocket full of sugar and a pocket full of oats will solve either problem.”

“I don’t think you can get out of it like that,” Sam argued.

“Why not?” Steve demanded. “I don’t need to do everything the hard way all the time.”

The waiter arriving to take their order distracted them enough that by the time she’d left, Steve didn’t have to keep defending his decision to bribe mis-sized barnyard animals instead of fighting them. 

They passed the rest of their dinner deliberately avoiding talking about anything remotely related to the past week, focusing instead on what they did off the field. Sam’s internship counseling elementary-aged kids who had incarcerated parents that he somehow managed to shoehorn in between football and school was an endless source of hysterical and heartbreaking stories, and Sam was a good storyteller. Steve skirted his life at home, instead opting to tell stories about the family he worked for during the summers. 

When they finally finished dinner and paid their tab, it had started snowing in earnest. “I missed this living in Texas,” Steve murmured as they walked home through the soft hush of the snow falling around them. “So what’s on tap for you between now and draft day?”

Sam shrugged. “I’m taking my last two classes and I’m still working with those kids, so back to campus. What about you?”

“Back to Austin, probably at least until draft day. I’ve got a lease through the end of May and if I’m still in Austin I can keep using the on-campus facilities to get ready. Plus, I do some freelance work for a local comic book shop. Drawing their advertisements and stuff.”

Sam glanced over at him. “You graduated, though. Go home and hang out with your mom. See that family you work for during the summer. You could do your work for this comic shop from Brooklyn, right? Pick up a little work locally.”

Steve shrugged. “I--It’s not that sim--”

“Hey, guys,” Natasha greeted them as she crossed the street towards them. “I was wondering what you were up to this evening.”

“Celebrating,” Sam replied. Steve nodded.

Natasha fixed them with a serious look. “Not doing anything I’m going to have to talk over TMZ about, I hope.”

Steve shook his head. “Unless they’ve developed an interest in two guys eating overpriced burgers and talking about school.”

“This is why I wanted to work with you, Steve,” she said. “No surprises.” She took his arm. “Let me buy you a nightcap.”

“That’s my cue,” Sam said, slapping Steve’s arm and peeling off to head for the elevators. “Don’t slam the door when you come in, man.”

“That’s not a thing I do!” Steve called after Sam’s retreating back. Sam just waved, not stopping or turning around.

“We do need to do a little shop talk tonight, but I’ll make it quick,” Natasha promised. She steered him towards the hotel bar that still looked remarkably crowded for nearly eleven. “You scrounge us a table and I’ll get us drinks.” 

Steve nodded, then turned to look for a spot to sit. All the tables were occupied, but a pair of gentlemen chatting over empty old fashioned glasses caught his eye as a likely prospect to ask if they’d be willing to vacate. The man facing him rose with a smile that said he knew what Steve was about to ask. “I’ll let you have our table if I can get a picture with one of the top prospects in the country.” 

Steve blushed. “I don’t--” he nodded. “Sure, if you’d like.”

The man pushed his red-tinted sunglasses up on his nose and turned to his companion. “Make sure you get my good side, Platypus.”

His companion rolled his eyes as he swiped open the camera on his phone. “I thought all your sides were good sides.”

“See this, right here, this is why I love you.”

“Smile you two,” his companion instructed. They did and the tiny shutter of the phone’s camera sounded a couple times. 

He extended his hand for Steve to shake after his friend nodded at the images on the phone. “How’s your week been? Enjoyed it?”

Steve shrugged as he shook the man’s hand. “I guess so. I think my agent’s about to tell me for sure though.”

He laughed and extended his hands, presenting the now empty table to Steve. “Well we won’t keep you. As promised. One table in exchange for one picture.” He stepped away from Steve and looped his arm through his friend’s. “Come on, Honey Bear. Let’s go finalize your itinerary.”

Steve slid into one of the seats at the table, but he didn’t have to wait long for Natasha to join him, a pair of glasses in her hand. 

“You like bourbon okay?”

He nodded and took the glass she slid across to him, but didn’t immediately take a sip. He just stared down into the couple inches of fluid in his glass, waiting for Natasha to speak her piece.

She took a sip of her grapefruit colored cocktail, clearly gathering her thoughts. “I watched your workout today, and you looked good. The chatter about you was mostly positive too. Calm shoulders. Smooth feet. Presence in the pocket. All those buzzwords you want to hear with a quarterback. The only real gripe I heard was about a lack of personal recognition at the national level.”

“I can’t control that,” Steven groused.

She smiled. “No, you can’t. And I don’t think anyone outside sports media talking heads is really too fussed about it either beyond it being a plotline they might have to swat down during OTAs.”

“How about you?” he asked, deflecting. “You have a good week?”

Natasha made a noncommittal noise, but allowed Steve his out. “I had a productive week. Talked to a lot of people about you. Several teams are really looking forward to the UT pro day because of your performance here. You’re doing that, by the way.”

Steve nodded. “I figured. I helped with the on field stuff last year so our offensive guys had some structure to their workout.”

“Good, then you know what that part’ll look like. There won’t be any timers on interviews or board work, though, so get ready for anyone who wants a closer look at you to really take their time with you.”

“Can you...I mean...is there any sort of indication about who might…?”

Natasha shook her head. “That’s the thing about the draft. Teams can want you and you can want teams, but whoever picks you first gets you.”

“Good to know this isn’t anything like junior high PE,” Steve muttered before downing the last of his drink. “You need anything else from me?”

“Nope. Just stay out of trouble, don’t hurt yourself, and be nice to reporters.” She fished a couple bills out of her handbag and pinned them under the stem of her cocktail glass. “What time are you flying out?”

Steve shrugged. “Early. I need to pack before I go to bed. All that responsible stuff.”

“I’ll leave you to it. Abe wants me to call and give him an update. He’s proud you’re working with us, you know.” Natasha patted his shoulder. “Have a good night, Rogers.”

“Good night, Nat,” Steve said with a small wave. 

Back up in their room, Sam was hard asleep, but he’d left Steve’s bedside lamp on. He moved quietly around the room, rounding up his things and folding them into his bag, thankful he didn’t have to make any more conversation tonight. He pulled a pair of jeans and a sweater out to wear on the flight home before he curled up in bed, thankful his exhaustion dragged him to sleep quickly and without dreams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild Tony appears! Finally! 
> 
> I'm so thankful to each and every one of y'all who have given this story a shot. I'm so pleased you're enjoying it, and an extra special thanks for leaving kudos and such kind comments.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes:  
> I’m not gonna lie, writing this chapter made me kind of sad since this year’s Draft got cancelled, but hey, we get this one, and this one’s got Stony!  
> A quick word about the Draft itself...there’s A LOT of wheeling and dealing that goes on behind the scenes with trading draft spots, trading picks ahead of those picks actually happening. Not to mention the actual bargaining for contract terms that happens after a selection occurs. I’ve stripped that WAY back because, let’s be real, we care about Steve getting drafted onto the team Tony owns.
> 
> As always, thanks to Betheflame and Kestrel337 for exemplary beta, cheer, and handholding. This would not be what it is without y'all.
> 
> Extra special thanks this week to Starksnack for wandering through this chapter and pointing at stuff and saying "what's that?" so I knew what to put in the support document.

“There’s literally slot machines in the airport,” Steve pointed out as he and Natasha made their way through a packed McCarran airport.

“What did you expect?” she asked with a laugh.

He shrugged. “Not sure. Gambling like this is illegal in Texas and New York, so I don’t really have a frame of reference, I guess.”

Natasha glanced up from her phone as they stepped on the escalator. “When we get downstairs, don’t stop. Vegas is a mob scene on a regular weekend, and this weekend everyone wants a piece of draftee meat. I’ve got an Uber waiting for us.”

Steve grinned over at her. “Have I told you lately how glad I am I hired you?”

“Not in the last week, so thank you.” She dropped her phone into her purse. “Let’s roll, Rogers.”

They stepped off the escalator, and the second Steve’s feet were on solid ground a trio of guys in Denver jerseys were shouldering through the crowd towards them. “Steve Rogers? You hoping to end up in Denver?” They picked up the pace a bit, dodging a couple arguing about how much was too much to lose playing Texas Hold ‘Em and a family with a toddler mid-meltdown, and popped out onto the sidewalk into the midday heat. The Denver fans didn’t bother following them out. Steve assumed they weren’t as interested in getting his answer as he was in not having to speculate about it. Especially not in a venue that could easily end up on Twitter.

“How is it already this hot?” Natasha muttered. “I am not built for this.”

Steve laughed. “So two-a-days in August aren’t your thing?”

“No, they are not.” She deadpanned, glaring at him over the top of her sunglasses before she turned to glance up and down the row of cars waiting in the rideshare stand. “We’re looking for a red CR-V.”

“That one?” he asked, pointing.

“Probably.” She led the way over to the car Steve had pointed out. “Uber for Natalie Rushman?”

“That’s me. I’m Cynthia,” the driver confirmed with a smile and a wave. “I’ll open the back so you can put your bags in the cargo area.”

Steve slipped the handle of Natasha’s suitcase out of her hand and went to stow both their bags while she handled getting their destination set up. He hadn’t actually planned on coming because when he’d looked at the cost of transportation and hotels, he’d almost had a stroke. He’d said as much to Natasha on one of their phone calls, and she’d simply said “you’re going” and hung up. Twenty minutes later he’d had flight and hotel confirmation emails in his inbox. 

Once they were settled in the back seat and on their way, their driver smiled back at them in the rearview mirror. “So, are you here for a romantic weekend?”

Steve blushed scarlet, but Natasha just smirked. “Not exactly,” she answered.

“You know you don’t have to come to Nevada to get divorced anymore, right?”

“We’re here for the Draft,” Steve answered, his face heating further. 

“Oh, for the NFL? That’s neat! You excited?”

Steve dug up what he’d started calling his SportsCenter Smile and nodded. “Now that it’s here, I really am.”

Natasha nodded down at her phone, but caught his eye and quirked an approving smile at him. She’d told him she was going to start smacking him with a rolled up newspaper if he didn’t start at least pretending to be more personable about answering these sorts of questions. She’d finished that particular lesson with “I do not represent Marshawn Lynch for a reason.”

Cynthia nodded. “I don’t know much about it myself, I’m afraid. My husband’s the sports fan in our house. Him and our boys. They’ve been looking forward to this for weeks. Can’t wait to tell them I had a player in my car.”

Natasha jabbed him in the ribs. 

“I can...uh...we can take a selfie?” he offered. “So you’ve got proof?”

They pulled to a stop under a portico at the Flamingo, and she turned around in her seat, grinning. “You’d do that? For me? They’d love that!”

Steve shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

“Well thank you. That’s really sweet of you.” She got out, and Steve came around to stand next to her.

“Phone?” Natasha asked, holding her hand out. 

Cynthia passed it over with a giggle. “My boys are gonna be so jealous.”

“Smile, Rogers,” Natasha commanded.

Steve slipped his arm around Cynthia’s shoulders and smiled. A couple clicks later, and Natasha was handing Cynthia her phone back. 

“Can I tweet this?” She asked, still grinning and clutching her phone like it was made of solid gold.

Steve glanced at Natasha for guidance, but she just shrugged. Up to him, then. “I...uh...I guess so.”

Cynthia dodged forward and squeezed his bicep. “Thank you. You’re a sweetheart. Your mama must be so proud.” 

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. 

She clambered back into her car then turned and waved out the driver’s side window. “Good luck tonight!”

Natasha took her suitcase in one hand and his arm in the other and steered them towards reception. “Yeah, Steve, your mom must be so proud.”

Steve sighed. “Can we not do this here?”

Natasha nodded. “Of course. But we will be doing this. Before we head over to the Bellagio.”

Steve stewed silently next to Natasha while she checked them in and worked her magic to get them rooms right next to each other. He knew he needed to tell her his mother had died, but the idea of explaining something like that to her in a crowded hotel lobby made his stomach turn.

Once they made it up to their floor, Natasha followed Steve into his room instead of going to her own. She plopped down on the bed. “Spill. Where’s your mom?”

Steve rolled his eyes and went to hang his suit in the closet. “I love this kind of nosy personal stuff,” he muttered.

“What nosy personal stuff?” Natasha instantly stiffened. “What am I going to be dealing with, Rogers?”

“Nothing bad. I-- _nothing bad_ ,” Steve insisted in the face of Natasha’s clearly sceptical expression. “Look, if I tell you, you cannot flip out.”

“Just tell me what I’m dealing with, and let me decide about flipping out.”

Steve sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brass compass and passed it over. He watched Natasha turn it over in her hands before unclasping the cover and flipping it open. A woman with blonde hair styled in soft curls smiled up from the inside of the compass casing. 

“Is this your mom?”

Steve nodded.

“She’s beautiful,” Natasha murmured. 

“She really was,” he agreed with a sad smile.

Natasha closed the compass and handed it back to Steve, catching his hand in both of hers. “How long?”

“July. Right before I had to report back for two-a-days. Coach let me come back a couple days late because of her funeral.” His stomach twisted at the thought of someone like Stephen Smith getting hold of his mother’s battle with cancer. He grabbed Natasha’s wrist as she started to pull away. “You can’t--I don’t--” he took a breath, trying to force himself to make sense. To explain his desire for privacy in a way that would show her how much he wanted his mom to have her peace. “I only told Phillips because I needed the time. I don’t want her to be someone ESPN can just talk about. She was sick for a long time, and by the end, it was just…” he looked at her, begging her to understand. “She deserves to rest, not to be some _talking point_ on a Sunday morning pre-game show.”

Natasha squeezed his hand in a surprisingly powerful grip and nodded. “You’re absolutely right.” 

She released his hand and sat back, all business again. “We’ll probably have to have this conversation with your new head coach and the PR team wherever you end up, but every club in the league will understand why this is something you want to keep private. Is there anyone I’d need to worry about bringing this up? Well meaning family?”

“It’s been just mom and me as long as I can remember. Dad was army, and he got deployed to Somalia right after I was born.” He shrugged and held up the closed compass. “Not everyone comes home from war.”

“Friends?”

Steve shook his head. “Her coworkers all circled the wagons on me after...everything, and I’m not sure there’s anything more scary than a group of neonatal nurses in protection mode.”

“Brings a whole new meaning to ‘I brought you into this world; I can take you out of it,’” Natasha quipped.

Steve laughed. “It really does. I’ll tell you about the threats I got from them before prom sometime.”

Natasha smiled. “You will be telling me that story. Consider it repayment for this weekend’s travel.”

Steve nodded. “Deal.”

She stood and squeezed Steve’s shoulder. “You’re supposed to be at the Bellagio two hours before the first round starts to make yourself available to the media, so I’m going to get out of your hair. I’ll come back and get you in an hour?”

“Sounds good.”

Thirty minutes later, freshly showered and shaved, Steve wandered back out of the bathroom with his toothbrush still hanging out of his mouth to stare at his suit hanging on the back of the closet door. He idly wondered how long it would take people to notice he really just had the one and that he was rotating through the handful of his father’s ties that didn’t have weird patterns. Why his dad had owned a tie covered in flying toasters was beyond him. His phone pinged softly from the desk, distracting him from worrying over clothing choices he couldn’t really change.

_Any guesses?_

Steve shook his head. Sam was in the exact same boat as him.

_It’s like going on the orphan trains. Won’t know till we get there._

_You are a giant nerd, you know?_

Steve laughed. 

_History minor. Can’t help it._

Getting dressed felt a lot like suiting up for gameday; each piece of clothing a different piece of protection against the outside world. The hope he’d held close, had been afraid to actually speak out loud to anyone except Natasha, was that a New York team would want him. He wanted to stay close to the neighborhood that had raised him. His mom’s team, the Makkouks who had given him a job every summer since he’d been big enough to do the work, hell, even the kids coming out of his high school.

The fear that had boiled just under that desire, though, was that no one would want him. He’d discussed that possibility with Natasha too; he’d insisted. She seemed to think he was jumping at shadows, but she’d also conceded the wisdom in preparing for both the best and worst case scenarios. So she’d helped him polish his “normal person” resume and drilled him with interview questions a design firm would ask on top of the on-camera questions sports broadcasters would ask. 

Now, though, standing in a hotel room, straightening his tie, preparing to go and wait for his name to be called on national television, the prospect of making a living off his art seemed as distant and surreal as he imagined this life seemed to their Uber driver. 

A knock at the door jerked him out of his thoughts, and when he went to see why Natasha was back ten minutes ahead of when she said she would be, he opened the door on Coach Phillips.

“Coach. I didn’t know you were going to be here this weekend.”

“Of course I’m gonna be here for the player who’s made me the proudest I’ve been in a lotta years.” Phillips stepped in and held out a small, white box. “Got ya something. To remember where you came from.”

“Thank you.” He turned the box over in his hands, stunned both at his coach’s presence and the fact that he’d gotten him anything.

Phillips clapped Steve on the shoulder. “Open it. You might want to wear it.”

Steve opened the box and lifted out a beautifully crafted gold watch chain. A small enamelled longhorn decal with a rose in its mouth dangled from one end. He blinked quickly, overwhelmed at such a thoughtful gift.   
  
“I figured you were gonna wear that same suit, so now you got something to carry your compass with.”

“Coach, I don’t-- _thank you._ ”

“Oh, now it’s not any big thing,” Phillips grumbled, but his brilliant smile proved the lie.

Steve picked up his father’s compass and clipped it to the watch chain before slipping it into his vest pocket. He finished attaching the chain to his vest before he turned to face his now former coach. “I won’t embarrass you too much, d’you think?”

“Of course you won’t.” He patted Steve’s shoulder, his smile small but proud. “Now go meet that pretty agent of yours. She got Lisa and me seats with y’all, but the media doesn’t want to talk to an old fart like me, so we’ll be along later.”

Steve nodded. “I’ll see you guys there.”

Phillips shook his head as he left. “Boy still won’t say y’all.”

~~*~~

The entire block of Las Vegas Boulevard in front of the Bellagio had been closed off and turned into seating for the Draft. A floating stage had been constructed in the middle of the water, and the arcing display of the fountains behind the stage only heightened the dramatic feel of the setup. Huge screens next to the main stage cut between shots of prospective draftees sitting with their families and friends and the suites inside the Bellagio and the Flamingo that had been turned into war rooms for all 32 teams’ draft selection committees. It was beautiful and completely over the top, and as they made their way in, Steve squeezed Natasha’s hand where it rested in the crook of his arm in silent thanks for making him come. 

Once they were inside, Steve had passed from interviewer to interviewer on the way to his seat, giving his same canned answers about how pleased and excited he was to be here and that he hoped to be able to contribute effectively to whichever team selected him. Natasha had hovered silently in the shadows, ready, he assumed, to swoop in and save him if he stuck his foot too far in his mouth, but she needn’t have worried.

“You probably won’t be number one,” Natasha murmured as they finally took their seats at the table reserved for them.

“I didn’t think I would be,” Steve answered, rolling his eyes. They’d discussed this already.

“You’re not going to get Tom Brady’d, though, and go in the sixth round either.”

Steve shot her a look. “What do you know?”

She shrugged. “Nothing for sure. But think about who you spent serious time with at your pro day, and I bet even you have some pet theories.”

“Sure, I bet every player here has some pet theories, but you sound like you’ve got actual intel,” he pointed out.

“I’ve heard a few teams traded up to have a better shot at you still being available.” She grabbed his hand under the table and started tracing team abbreviations onto his palm, making a list. “So I’d say you’ll go sometime between nine and twelve based on how high those teams traded.”

“You ready for this?” Phillips asked as he and his wife slid into the seats on Steve’s other side just as the lights over the seats were beginning to lower.

Steve shrugged. “No turning back now if I’m not.” He smiled over at Coach Phillips’ wife. “Mrs. Phillips, it’s nice to see you again.”

She reached over and patted his arm. “Good to see you too, sweetie. Good luck tonight.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

As Rich Eisen announced that Cincinnati was on the clock, Steve finally spotted Sam sitting a few tables away and caught his eye to wave. Sam waved back, grinning at him. 

The Bengals didn’t even take their full ten minutes to announce they were taking Joe Bush, and as he made his way to shake hands with the owner and brand new head coach, Steve leaned over and murmured to Natasha, “He’s going to have his work cut out for him.”

She nodded. “He really is. New coach, new scheme, a lot of holes to fill.”

“Their defense honestly needs more work,” Phillips muttered. 

“Yeah, but a free safety or a lineman’s not as flashy a first round pick,” Steve pointed out. 

Phillips huffed a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

“This is why I like you, Rogers. You’ve got a head for this beyond what’s on the field,” Natasha murmured.

Nine picks later, Eisen announced that New York was now on the clock, and the simulcast screens switched to a display of the Avengers’ draft committee switching between laptops and phones in their suite at the top of the Bellagio.

Natasha grabbed his elbow. “Be ready.”

Steve shot her a questioning look, hardly daring to hope. “You think?”

Before she could answer, the owner Tony Stark, the GM Pepper Potts, and the head coach Nick Fury were all making their way to the podium. They conferred briefly, then Pepper stepped to the microphone.

“With the tenth pick in the NFL Draft, the New York Avengers select Steve Rogers, quarterback, The University of Texas.”

Natasha smiled brightly at him. “Told you.”

Steve laughed and squeezed her hand as he stood. “You did.”

“Congratulations on headin’ home, son,” Phillips said.

“Thanks.” 

As he wove between the tables towards the stage out on the water, he could picture ESPN and NFL Network analysts breathlessly recounting his collegiate career and his showing at the Combine over a highlight reel of his time at Texas and his week in Indianapolis. He could practically hear what they were saying, having heard it over and over in the time between the end of the season and tonight. The scuttlebutt calling him a winner in the pocket and touting his overall athleticism were nothing new, but now it would come with the added speculation about how he would fit in as the backup and heir apparent to a journeyman like Fitzsimmons.

Steve made it to the stage where the three biggest names in the Avengers organization were waiting to shake his hand. Head coach Nick Fury stepped forward first and clasped his hand. “Rogers, we’re pleased you’re going to be joining us.”

“Mr. Fury, I’m looking forward to working with you,” he said, shaking Fury’s hand. 

Fury nodded once, a ghost of a smile on his face.

Steve turned to the GM as she reached to pin an Avengers lapel pin to his suit. “Thank you for this opportunity, ma’am.”

Pepper squeezed his hand and smiled warmly. “Pepper, please. We’re so excited to bring you home to play for your friends and family.”

“That--that really means a lot,” Steve said, smiling at her. He turned, finally, to the third person the Avengers had brought to announce their first round draft pick. “Mr. Stark, I…”

Tony Stark smiled up at him. “I can’t offer you a whole table this time, but maybe…” he brought a small tupperware container out from behind him. “Maybe this will make up for it?”

Steve took the container, but he couldn’t hear anything over the roar from the crowd when he shook it. “This is--I’m not--”

“Later, boys,” Pepper said. She handed Steve an Avengers hat and motioned Fury back over. “Wear that. Hold the jersey with Nick. Smile at the cameras.”

“Just do what she says; it’s easiest,” Tony murmured as he slipped in next to Steve and they shuffled into a tighter group.

Steve pulled the hat on and took the shoulder of the number ten jersey Fury passed him then turned a confident smile towards the press pool. The cheering from the stands set up on the Strip exploded around them along with the flashbulbs from the press pit. In his pocket, Steve could feel his phone vibrating over and over with incoming messages.

Finally he heard the stage manager’s voice indicate that they’d gone to commercial. She came over to guide them off stage. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to your press area.”

“This’ll probably just be some softball stuff,” Stark said as they trailed the stage manager back into the press area. “You have a place in New York? I’ve got a realtor who’s worked with our guys. I mean, you don’t _have_ to be in the city till the end of June, but it’s worth thinking about now, you know? I’ll have Pep’s secretary Lorraine get you the contacts for the current roster. She’s--”

“Mr. Stark,” Steve cut in with a small smile. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. I have a place. I would appreciate those contacts though. It’ll be easier than having nothing and trying to round them up one by one.”

Stark waved his hand. “Tony, please. Mr. Stark was my father, and let’s be honest, someone like him had no business with this kind of control over other people’s lives.”

“Right here gentlemen,” the stage manager interrupted them. “We’ll start with everyone then just Steve.”

They all took seats in front of the Avengers backdrop and representatives from the press immediately crowded around.

“Why did you decide to draft a quarterback in the first round when you have Fitzsimmons signed already?” a man from ESPN asked.

“You can’t put all your eggs in one basket,” Fury pointed out. “Fitz is here now, and Rogers’ll be able to learn from him, but we need to think long term.”

“Rumor has it you traded up to get this pick, any worries about how that could impact your effectiveness in later rounds, Ms. Potts?” another man, this time from Fox Sports jumped in.

Pepper’s thin smile gave nothing away. “We’ve discussed our priorities as an organization thoroughly.” 

A woman with a New York Post press pass stuck her phone forward. “Mr. Stark, anything you can tell us about why you selected Rogers over other available quarterbacks like Rumlow?”

Tony gestured at Steve. “Look at him. He’s clearly got everything it takes to succeed as the face of a franchise. Why would I want to saddle myself with anyone else when I could saddle myself with Steve.”

The press exploded with follow-up questions. Steve blushed to the roots of his hair; _surely_ Tony knew how that sounded. 

“We were _interested_ ,” Pepper cut in smoothly, quelling the clamor. She shot Tony a Look before she continued. “We were interested in drafting a quarterback who would bring local fans into the stadium and would get the ones who couldn’t make it to the stadium to tune in on Sunday afternoons. We definitely get that by bringing a hometown product back to his neighborhood.” She smirked. “And it doesn’t hurt that he’s got serious talent.”

A glance at her watch, and Pepper started to gather her phone and portfolio, nodding to Fury and Tony. “Gentlemen, if you would.” She smiled at the press pool. “If you’ll excuse us, we need to get ready for the next round, but Mr. Rogers is available for a few more of your followup questions.”

With that, they stood to go. Fury nodded once at him, like Steve had passed some sort of silent test. Pepper patted his shoulder and murmured another word of welcome. Tony, though, shot him a completely self-satisfied smirk and a wink, and Steve felt himself flush all over again.

“Mr. Rogers, how are you feeling about getting drafted by the Avengers?” The young lady from The Post asked, turning her phone towards him.

Steve smiled. “I’m very happy to have the opportunity to play for such a well-respected organization so close to home.”

“Are you worried about the number of snaps you’ll get since there’s already a starter in place?” ESPN had apparently already settled on the narrative they were going to play up.

“No,” Steve answered simply. “The NFL game is different from the college game. It’s faster, the schemes are more intricate, so there’s a significant learning curve. The opportunity to work under someone like Ryan Fitzsimmons is going to be a great way to learn and get my feet under me.”

A woman with a WCBS lapel pin on her dress spoke up. “What are you most looking forward to about playing in New York?”

“Being able to do my runs in Prospect Park again.”

“Time for one more question,” another stage hand said from the back of the group.

“Can you tell us what’s in the container?” a man from NFL Network asked.

Steve shook his head. “I haven’t opened it yet.”

“Would you op--”

Steve stood, cutting off the followup from the NFL Network journalist. “I’m sorry, but I’m getting the ‘hurry up’ from the crew, so I think it’s time for me to let you go.”

With a small smile and nod at the assembled reporters, he stepped from behind the table. He figured it wouldn’t be terribly dignified to sprint over to meet Natasha where she was lurking by the exit, so he settled for covering the distance in a few purposeful strides.

“Careful, people will start thinking I’m more than just your agent,” she said with a smirk as she took his arm.

Steve rolled his eyes. “You’re beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but you’re not my type.”

“You’ve probably got some sweet girl waiting for you back home anyway,” she dismissed with an effortless wave. 

Steve refused to answer, sure anything he said would give away the fact that, no, he did not have a sweet girl waiting for him in either Austin or Brooklyn. And he probably wouldn’t. Ever.

“You’re free for tonight, but Erskine has a couple more prospects who aren’t first round material here this weekend,” she continued, apparently oblivious to his silent panic. “I gotta babysit them since Abe stayed back to man the farm.” She squeezed his arm. “Celebrate, but don’t do anything stupid. You know the drill.”

Steve nodded. “I do.” 

~~*~~

Crossing the street to get away from the commotion of passersby straining to get a peek at the Draft, Steve was relieved at how little notice people paid him once he escaped the immediate vicinity. He turned south and started walking, his new jersey tucked under his arm and the little tupperware, still unopened, safe in the curve of his palm. 

“Going my way?”

Steve about jumped out of his skin, whirling at the sound of Tony Stark’s voice. “Mr. Stark--Tony, I didn’t--shouldn’t you be at the Draft?”

Tony flapped his hand dismissively. “They only want me there for the first round. Bring out all the flash for the top prospect.” He smirked. “Make you feel like you’re going somewhere worth being.” 

Steve shrugged, a small, self-deprecating smile on his face. “Grew up in Brooklyn. Makes me a pretty easy sell on that one, honestly.”

“Not necessarily.” Tony turned and started walking the direction Steve had been headed. He looked over at Steve with a spark in his eye. “You could’ve been a Giants fan.”

Steve trotted after Tony, laughing. “Coulda. Wasn’t.” He fell in step with Tony easily, the pair of them strolling with the crowds on the Strip. 

They made it a block and a half before Tony spoke. “So, where we headed, Chartbuster? Casino? Nightclub?” He shot Steve a look. “Strip club?”

Steve blushed. “I don’t--a strip club? Jesus, Tony, no.”

“I don’t know what your idea of a good time is.” Tony shrugged, defensiveness creeping into his voice.

Steve rolled his eyes. “Not any of that, I can promise you.”

Tony jammed his hands in his pockets and scowled down at the pavement as they kept walking. “Keep your shirt on,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” He glanced over at Steve’s stymied face, at the blush that still tinted his cheeks. “So what _do_ you do for fun?” 

Steve shook his head and squeezed the container in his hand, almost like he was checking it was still there. Any answer he gave would make him seem hopelessly dull. “I’m a pretty...simple guy, honestly. Rec center, pool, cards until two in the morning, video game tournaments. Anything cheap that’s not a violation of team rules.”

“TopGolf?” Tony offered.

“Is that the fancy driving range?” Steve asked. When Tony nodded, Steve shook his head. “Scholarships don't cover that kind of thing. Seems fun, though.” 

“Let’s go, then.” Tony looped his arm through Steve’s elbow and steered them towards the pedestrian bridge. 

~~*~~

Less than an hour later, Steve followed Tony and a TopGolf employee through a packed building and up to a suspiciously primo bay on the third tier, only half paying attention as the young lady explained how to swipe into the computer and how the different games worked. 

She finished getting them set up and held Tony’s card out to him with a smile, but instead of taking it, he just stared at the card pinched between her thumb and forefinger. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Steve said with a smile, reaching out to take the card from her. He set it on the table with his jersey and the container he still hadn’t managed to open and shot Tony a sideways glance, but Tony just shrugged, unrepentant. After their hostess departed with a smile and a word about their bay attendant being along shortly for their drink order, Steve turned his sideways look full on Tony Stark. “What was _that_ about?”

Tony just shrugged again. “I don’t like people handing me things.”

“That’s…” Steve rolled it over in his head. “Actually, no, I don’t get it.”

“It’s--I’m--”

Steve shook his head. “You don’t have to explain.” 

He turned to look at the selection of clubs, letting Tony have his secrets. God only knew he had enough of his own. “Now how does this work?”

“Simple enough. You swing for the fences,” Tony said, easy smile back. He pointed at the irons. “Try one of those; they’ll give you more distance.” 

Steve shook his head as he pulled a club out of the rack. “I hope you realize I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.”

Tony motioned Steve over to the tee. “C’mere. I’ll show you.” Steve stepped over and Tony started tugging him into position. “Like this,” he murmured.

Steve blushed scarlet when Tony wrapped his hands around Steve’s to show him how to hold the club so it wouldn’t slide around in his grip. Tony’s hands were smaller than his, but their calm competence made them seem all encompassing where they settled around Steve’s.

“Shift your weight from your back foot to your front as you swing.” Tony used his hold on Steve’s hands to rock them both through the motion of the swing then released his hands with a small squeeze. “All there is to it, Top Ten.”

Steve shook himself, staring down at the tiny white ball. Everyone said Tony Stark flirted like breathing. This wasn’t anything more than a celebratory game with his newest employee.

He glanced down the range, trying to picture the ball sailing towards one of the targets then back down at his ball and pulled back to swing. The hollow metallic sound of the club making solid contact with the ball made Steve smile. The ball dropping neatly into the netting lit blue from beneath made him grin. “I can see why people like this,” he said, turning back to Tony.

“And you’re sure you’re not going to abandon us for the PGA Tour?” Tony asked with a wink.

Steve rolled his eyes. “Pretty sure Tiger Woods is safe from the likes of me.” He dropped his club back into the rack only to have Tony pull it right back out again. 

“Oh you say that, but either you’re the world’s fastest study or you’re secretly playing Pebble Beach on your summers off.” 

Tony teed up and drove his own ball, scowling when it took a wild slice off to the right. “Just physics my ass.” He glared back over his shoulder at Steve. “Don’t think I can’t hear you laughing at me.”

“I think there’s a difference between ideal physics and practical physics,” Steve replied through his laughter. “‘Least that’s what Dallas, my old center, would tell me.”

“See, this is why Rhodey and Fury liked you,” Tony said, dropping down into the chair next to Steve. “You’ve got snap.”

Steve shrugged. “According to Phillips I can tell my asshole from a hole in the ground, so that’s gotta count for something.”

Tony nodded. “You really can. He and Fury both came home from your pro day raving about your ability to see the whole field, even if the pocket collapses and you’re working in less than ideal conditions. That’s what makes for long-term success. Or so I’m told.” He pointed at the little container sitting in the nest of Steve’s jersey. “Did you get it?’

“Haven’t opened it yet.” Steve said. “It’s not a bomb is it?”

“Haven’t you heard? I got out of the weapons game,” Tony replied flaty.

Steve blushed. He hadn’t even remembered Stark Industries had been a weapons manufacturer, but now SI’s reputation loomed between them, blotting out the easy company they’d been sharing. “That wasn’t--I--I’m sorry, Tony. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s fine. Can’t erase that kind of a reputation overnight.” He smiled, but it sat awkwardly on his face and didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Steve stood to take his next shot, cursing the act-don’t-think streak his mom had scolded him about every time he’d come home with a black eye and bloody knuckles in junior high. Apparently he still had it. He glared down at the little crosshairs on the ball as if the black cross and red circle were mocking him. Using his swing to punish the ball didn’t make him feel much better either. He watched his ball bounce into the net lit up white to avoid having to face Tony a little longer, but the sound of him clearing his throat forced Steve to turn around.

“You do realize I don’t expect you to say the right thing every single time you open your mouth, right?” 

Steve shook his head. “I don’t gotta be a dick though.”

“Please.” Tony came to stand next to Steve. “You’re what, 22?”

“24.”

“How are you this old and just now graduating?” Tony asked incredulously. 

“Late birthday. And I got held back in second grade.”

“Okay then.” Tony pinched the meat of Steve’s forearm then waited until Steve met his eyes. “I’m...not in my twenties anymore, and I promise you I still let my mouth run away with itself. All the time. You didn’t mean what you said the way I took it.”

“Still, I’m sorry,” Steve insisted. 

Tony nodded. “You’re sorry you said it. I’m sorry for making you feel like shit over something little. Fair enough?” 

Steve nodded. “Fair enough.”

“Okay.” He slapped Steve on the bicep, grinning as he went to grab his club. “Now stand back...I’m gonna clean your clock.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Steve murmured with a smirk.

~~*~~

Later, when they were sitting in the outdoor bar on the TopGolf roof, Tony nudged his ankle with the toe of his shoe. “So...worth it?”

“Definitely,” Steve said, a small smile tugging the corner of his mouth. He’d loved vanishing into the crowd, and being able to do it with Tony had been even better. He’d felt his age, if only for an hour, while they’d exchanged drives and trash talk and not even their bay attendant had recognized either one of them, even though the Draft was on every screen in the complex. 

“Come on, open your present.” Tony’s warm voice and another gentle nudge with his toe cut easily into Steve’s thoughts.

He downed the rest of his drink then held up the little container. A soft shushing noise was the only indication that anything was in it at all. He unscrewed the lid, and was surprised at the little tray full of white crystals sitting just under the lid. Lifting out the tray revealed the rest of the container was filled with raw oats. He licked his pinky and dipped it in the white stuff, and sure enough, it was sugar. 

“Is this for my duck sized horses and horse sized duck problem?” Steve asked, glancing at Tony out of the corner of his eye, a shy smile teasing at the corners of his lips.

Tony beamed. “I figured you’d want to be prepared for anything life could throw at you.”

“What--how did you know?” Steve asked, his shy smile morphing into a full out grin. 

“The analysts Rhodeybear had running the interviews called him as soon as you left and he called me. Never been to the Combine in my life. Never wanted to. But I flew to Indy and spent the rest of the week watching you work because of your interview.” 

Steve shook his head. “I...I _want_ to be that. What you need, but...” he clenched his hands around the container and shrugged down at the table, unable to articulate the helpless uneasiness that chewed around the edges of his attention every time he tried to picture himself on an NFL field.

A gentle hand on his arm made Steve look up. Tony waited until Steve’s posture relaxed before he spoke. “This--you--I _like_ the way you think. You’re not tied to some kind of--of _rigid_ mindset. It’s...refreshing. _You’re_ refreshing.” 

Steve nodded, humbled by Tony’s faith in him. “But what if--”

“Don’t worry so much about ‘what if.’” Tony interrupted with an easy smile. “Just...do you. The rest is all noise.”

~~*~~

**@carpool_captain**

I got to drive the number *10* pick in the NFL Draft yesterday thanks to **@UberLV**. What a sweet young man. #IKnewHimWhen

**@StephenSmith**

As far as I’m concerned, the Avengers gave too much away to get Steve Rogers. Let’s see Fury solve his wide receiver problem with two quarterbacks. #Blasphemous.

**@NYAvengers**

Welcome to New York and welcome home, Steve Rogers!

> Reply from **@Avengers_endzone**
> 
> Anyone else wondering why we drafted a QB instead of a WR when we’ve got Fitz?
> 
> Reply from **@touchdownavengers**
> 
> Drafting a national champ seems like the move to make tbh. Fitz’s arm is shit.
> 
> Reply from **@FitzsBeard**
> 
> He’ll learn good shit under Fitz. Looking forward to a dynamic duo.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes:  
> Not really sure why, but I always picture the Howlies being about two seconds away from having an absolute catastrophe on their hands, so why would “helping” clean a house be in any way different?  
> Let us proceed apace with the handwaving! I’ve rolled the rookie mini-camp and the beginning of OTAs into one because pacing. Aso, I know a bit about OTAs from friends who have been in and around the League...this is not in any way a flex, it’s just a statement. And what I’ve learned from talking to them is this: actual rookie camps and the vast majority of OTAs are BORING. Think back on the last time you had to go through orientation for your job...pretty dull amiright? The NFL ain’t no different. So we’re going to tart it up a bit, for the Dramz, obviously.  
> It is an actual expectation for many players (especially if they’re household names or on the way to becoming such) that they make themselves available to members of the media every day they’re at work, sometimes for up to two hours (YIKES). This means most players are expected to curate their image EXTREMELY carefully. ESPN can’t fill 24 hours of coverage on their own, people.
> 
> Friends, this story would be a hot ass mess without Betheflame and Kestrel337. I'm thankful for them every single day.

**To:** sgrogers12@gmail.com

**From:** nursealice77@gmail.com

**Subject:** Welcome Home

Hey Short Stack,

I know you said you’d be getting into town on Friday evening, but I’m on shift till 7. If you don’t mind waiting till I’m off, I’ll bring the keys and some dinner by the house. 

We’re all so proud of you and we can’t wait till you’re home.

Alice Hulsey

**To:** nursealice77@gmail.com

**From:** sgrogers12@gmail.com

**Subject:** re: Welcome Home

Ms. H,

Sounds good. I’ll see you around 7:30.

Steve

**To:** samtwilson@gmail.com

**From:** sgrogers12@gmail.com

**Subject:** A Room of One’s Own

Sam,

If you need a place when you get to New York (congratulations on that by the way...looking forward to working with you), mom and I converted the third floor into a furnished rental while I was still in high school, and it’s empty right now.

No pressure.

Steve

**To:** sgrogers12@gmail.com

**From:** samtwilson@gmail.com

**Subject:** re: A Room of One’s Own

Steve,

Dude. Seriously. My hero. I don’t even care what the rent is because apartments.com is being about as helpful as a brick to the face.

I’ll be there Sunday probably early afternoon. 

You gotta help me schlep all my crap in though.

Sam

~~*~~

With a whole house to get organized, and an upstairs apartment to clean, Steve rolled out of bed as soon as his alarm went off his first Saturday back in Brooklyn. After he’d eaten, though, he spent the rest of the morning wandering through the house instead of actually working. He’d stop and pick things up, little knick knacks that had accumulated on different horizontal surfaces over the years that either he or his mom had been unable to part with. A little Liberty Bell from Sarah’s high school trip to Philadelphia. The first piston Steve had ever successfully stripped from a refurb job. The brilliant green glass insulator they’d found at a flea market one weekend. A vividly painted ceramic skull from their trip to New Orleans the season Steve had played in the Sugar Bowl. In the office, a whole end table of pictures of her and Joe and her and Steve smiled up at him. Different ages, different phases, different moments all preserved on that table.

He found an album on the shelf under the table, and when he opened it, his tiny junior high self smiled up at him wearing shoulder pads so big he looked like a turtle hiding in its shell. Next to his picture, his mom had written in her steady hand _I think your pads might be bigger than you, Stevie_. 

High school him hadn’t looked that much different than junior high him that first year; swallowed up by his gear, nervous smile for the camera, he could hardly imagine why the freshman coach had even put him on the field. Shooting up nearly a foot between the end of his freshman season and summer two-a-days before his sophomore year had made him gangly and unwieldy before his body had figured out how to handle the extra size, but he’d learned quick enough when the varsity quarterback had gone down with a shoulder injury mid-season and Steve got pulled up from JV. He’d been terrified the first time he’d started in that varsity uniform. The picture of him clinging to his mom after that first game held him for a long time. _MVP first game out_ his mom had written. Underneath he’d scrawled _Getting a hug from my #1 fan_.

Flipping through his high school career, action shots of him on the field started to mix more frequently with his formal team pictures as he spent more and more time in the game, and his signing day and the party Coach Raf had--

Pounding on the door followed by an insistent ringing on the doorbell made Steve jump, and the album thunked onto the floor. He picked up the album then went to see who had come calling so aggressively early on a Saturday morning. He opened the door on a group of muscle bound guys led by one with chin length brown hair and a complicated-looking metal brace strapped to his left arm from wrist to shoulder. 

“Steve Rogers?” the apparent ringleader asked.

Steve gripped the album a little tighter. “Who’s asking?”

“James Barnes. Friends call me Bucky.” Bucky stuck his hand not encumbered by the brace out with a winning smile.

Steve shook Bucky’s hand with a small smile of his own. “Nice to meet you. What...uh…”

“OTAs start on Monday, and we thought ya might need some help getting settled.” 

Steve stepped back to let them in, and Bucky stepped into the entryway. “That’s--thank you.”

“Let’s see, that’s Tim Dugan, but literally everyone calls him Dum Dum. That’s Gabe Jones, Monty Falsworth, Jim Morita, and Jacques Dernier,” Bucky said, pointing to each of his companions as they followed him into the house. “And we’re here to help with whatever you need.”

Steve looked back into the house with a helpless shrug. “I’m not honestly sure. And anyway, I don’t want you to give up your last Saturday before OTAs helping me with housework. I can take care of this on my own.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and shook his head as the rest of his friends spread out into the first floor rooms. “Sure you _can_ . Thing is, you don’t _have to_.” He grinned at Steve. “Come on, man. We’re here. Point us at what needs doin’ and let us help.”

“Why is everything covered in dust cloths?” Dum Dum called from the living room. “You planning on just never sitting down in your own house again?”

Steve tucked the album he was still holding up under his arm as he closed the front door before turning back to the living room. “I only got in last night, and no one’s been living here for almost a year.” 

He drew up short in the living room door watching Dum Dum gesture at the other end of the couch. “Grab that end, Jackie boy. Help me start getting this furniture uncovered.”

“Where do you keep your bleach?” came Gabe’s voice from the kitchen.

“I don’t--I think there should be some under the sink by the washer and dryer.”

Bucky’s arm around his shoulder stopped Steve from trying to go help find his own Clorox. “Best to just let us help, don’t you think?” he asked with a grin. 

“I--I guess so,” Steve conceded.

“Come on, let’s you and me start on the office.”

Bucky dragged Steve into the office then stopped to look at that table full of pictures. “Good God you were a tiny kid,” he said, picking up the picture Sarah had insisted on framing from Steve’s first day of high school. He looked back up at Steve. “Sure grew into yourself, didn’t ya?”

Steve laughed. “You shoulda’ seen my hands and feet. I looked like a rottweiler puppy.” 

“Oh my God, you did! Look at those frying pans!” Bucky cried through his laughter.

Steve set the album back on the shelf where he’d found it then nudged Bucky’s shoulder. “Come on, I probably shouldn’t let you guys do all the work for me.”

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky agreed, putting the picture back. “Don’t think I’ll be forgetting about this come rookie hazing though,” he promised with a gesture at the ample evidence of Steve’s drastically undersized youth.

“I didn’t think you would,” Steve said, rolling his eyes.

They fell into a steady rhythm after that, uncovering furniture, dusting furniture, and setting smaller things in order. All the little organization that made a house liveable. After a while, three sets of footsteps thundered up to the third floor. Raucous laughter floated down the stairs, undercutting the clatter of a bucket and the barked “fuck” when what sounded like a mop handle hit the floor right after.

“Swear Jar, Jimmy!” Bucky hollered up the stairs. “I know you know Fury hates that kinda talk.”

Steve smiled at the sound of the house full and alive again, even if it was only for the day. 

He and Bucky eventually trailed after the upstairs crew up to the second floor to make a start on the bedrooms, but Steve had to pull up when Bucky stopped at the top of the stairs, staring at the stuff Steve had brought back from Austen lining the hallway. Bucky pointed to the two closed doors and asked, “So which room’s yours?”

“I--this one, I guess,” he gestured halfheartedly at the master. Inside, the boxes of shoes and clothes stacked neatly against the far wall of the bedroom each labelled DONATE or RECYCLE made Steve scowl, dreading the conversation he could feel coming. 

“You want me to run these where they need to go?” Bucky pointed at the boxes. “I got my car. I can bring back lunch too.”

Steve nodded, willing to ignore Bucky’s underlying question. “That’d be great. Thank you, Bucky.”

“Wanna sling ‘em out the window to me?” 

“Stairs’ll do fine, Buck,” Steve laughed.

Once they’d hauled everything down and shoved it in the cargo area of Bucky’s SUV, he turned to Steve. “You got any allergies or dietary restrictions?”

Steve shook his head. “Nope. I think I had everything _except_ allergies growing up.”

“There’s a really good banh mi place out here that our nutritionist has okayed.” 

“If it’s that place on Washington, I think I got their classic sandwich every day during summer two-a-days in high school.”

Bucky slid into his car with a nod and gunned the engine. “Got it. See ya’ in a bit,” he hollered out the window as he pulled away from the curb.

A head of reddish blonde hair poked out of one of the front windows on the third floor at the sound of Bucky’s yelling. “Where’s he going?”

“Taking some boxes to donate, some to recycle, and bringing us back lunch,” Steve shaded his eyes and squinted up at Monty.

“There’s a couple things you need. I’ll text him, and he can get them while he’s out, too.” 

Monty’s head disappeared back inside the window, and Steve collapsed on the front steps. Dum Dum pulled open the door and just stood in the doorway staring at him. “You okay, there?”

He looked up at Dum Dum and offered him a wan smile. “I think I will be. It’s all just...a lot.”

He nodded. “It can be.”

Steve sat and soaked in the frank acknowledgement that he was allowed to struggle, grateful to whatever, or whoever, had pushed Bucky and his friends to come over. 

“Jackie and I finished downstairs, so we came up to help you and Bucky,” he shrugged. “Well, I guess just you now.”

Steve stood and nodded then they trundled back up and set to work turning Steve’s childhood bedroom into a storage area and setting up the master how he wanted it. Jacques, _call me Jackie, no really,_ found all the spare sheets in drawers under the bed and stripped the dusty set off and went to put them in the wash while Steve and Dum Dum remade the bed then started in on the boxes in the hall.

“Who the hell doesn’t have closets in the bedroom?” he asked in response to Steve telling him the tiny sitting room off the master was actually the closet and to just bring the boxes labelled CLOTHES to him there.

“You are literally from Boston,” Steve retorted, poking his head back out of the sitting room-cum-closet. “I’m sure there’s plenty of ‘creative’ floorplans in Boston houses.”

Handing Steve another box of clothes, he shook his head. “Didn’t matter what kind of rattrap we were staying in, bedrooms all had some kind of closet.” He glanced around the tidy master bedroom with the sun streaming in through the bay window. “Never any place like this.”

Steve shrugged diffidently down at the shirt he was hanging. “Sometimes I’m not sure how we held onto this place.” He kept the ‘because of me’ to himself.

Dum Dum clapped him on the shoulder and grinned down at him. “That’s why we play though, right? So our families don’t have to worry.” 

Steve nodded weakly and fixed his eyes back on the shirt in his hands.

Dum Dum squeezed his shoulder once more before he let Steve go and glanced down at his watch. “Jesus. Cho’s minions are gonna beat our asses if we don’t eat soon. We about done in here?”

Steve looked at the little bit left that now didn’t seem nearly as daunting. “Sure.”

“Great.” Dum Dum pulled out his phone and dialled. At the tinny, distant ‘hello?’ he barked “Where the hell are you?” A pause. “I mean, I guess. You know the guys and I don’t care. Hang on, I’ll ask.” He pulled the phone away from his face. “You care if Stark comes and eats with us?”

Steve blushed. “I guess not. Why would he want to?”

A shrug. “Dunno. Welcome to the team, maybe?”

Steve shrugged back. “I mean if he wants to.”

“It’s fine with us,” he said back into the phone. He listened for a moment then nodded. “Sure. See you in a bit.” Dum Dum hung up and pocketed his phone. “Bucky’s on his way with whatever Monty said you needed from Target and Lowes, lunch, and our boss’s boss’s boss.”

“What’d I need from Target and Lowes?” Steve asked, wrinkling his eyebrow.

“Apparently there was a list. Since it’s Monty, you’ll probably end up able to rebuild this place from the foundation and keep it clean enough to perform surgery on the bathroom floor.”

The door banging open downstairs cut across Steve’s reply, and Bucky’s shouting traveled up the stairs. “Food and the boss are here. Get washed, ya pigs.”

As they made their way down the hall to the bathroom to wash up, the sound of Monty, Jim, and Gabe thundering down the stairs made Steve flinch up at the ceiling like their pounding footsteps were enough to bring it down on their heads. “Not to be rude or anything, but--”

“Always the prelude to something fuckin’ rude, you realize.”

Steve laughed. “Fair. So not to be rude, but, was...uh...were you guys raised in a barn?”

Dum Dum elbowed him out of the way to get at the sink. “You never spent much time around defensemen did ya?” Steve shook his head, which made Dum Dum burst out laughing. “We’re quite the herd of elephants. You’ll get used to us. Although, I think this is the longest I’ve spent with someone on offense outside mandatory team stuff.” He thwapped Steve with the towel before he hung it back up. “You’re alright, though.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Gee. Thanks.”

“Come on, food time!”

Downstairs, Bucky and Jackie were laying out food while Gabe and Jim were setting the table. 

“We have water and water,” Monty offered as he filled glasses at the sink. 

“Sounds good to me,” Steve replied. “I don’t really feel like collapsing with a cramp on Monday.”

“Goodness gracious, what have you been up to all day to get so...Esquire-photoshoot disheveled?” Tony asked from his spot leaning against the kitchen island

Steve blushed scarlet. “I’m--I--”

“Oh, just ignore Tony. He can’t help talkin’ like he does,” Bucky said, elbowing Steve as he passed. “C’mon boss, don’t scare the new guy.”

“I’m not scary. Who says I’m scary?” He poked Steve’s arm. “Am I scary?”

Steve shrugged, recovering. “The first time I met you was in a hotel bar close to midnight and I didn’t even recognize you. The second time I schooled you at fancy nightclub golf. So...no?”

“See!” He trailed after Steve around the table and slid into the chair next to him. “Wait, schooled me?”

Steve shot Tony a sideways smile. “Sure. I outscored you by what? Close to 200 points?”

“Alright, alright,” Tony flapped his hand. “No need to rub it in.”

“I’m just sayin’. 200 points isn’t a small amount.”

“I guess everything really is bigger in Texas.” He winked at Steve. “Including egos.”

“Not ego if it’s true,” Steve murmured through a smile. He ducked his head and started picking apart his meal; ‘doing surgery on your food’ his ma had called it.

“What’d that sandwich ever do to you?” Tony asked, poking his fork at the slaw Steve had set aside to save for last and stealing a bite.

“Hey!” Steve knocked Tony’s hand away then turned his plate so his precious vegetables were as far from Tony’s wandering fork as possible. “You want slaw so bad, get your own.” He smiled at Tony’s petulant frown then shrugged. “It’s too messy all put together. Everything falls out.” 

He pointed at Tony’s violently pink smoothie. “Is that all you’re having?”

“Smoothies are food,” Tony replied around his straw. “And anyway, _someone_ wouldn’t share his slaw.”

“You do realize I’m in the process of ramping up to eating 3500 calories a day, right?” Steve asked, even as he rotated his plate back around so Tony could reach. “Everything I put on the plate’s gotta go in the body.”

Tony gaped at Steve’s lean, muscular frame. “Jesus Christ, where does it _go_?”

Steve winked. “You may not have heard, but some weirdo billionaire is paying me to play football for him. Takes a lot of energy.”

“That is the word on the street,” Tony agreed, snagging another bite of Steve’s food. “And I’m not a weirdo. I’m quirky. Eccentric at the worst.” He took another sip of his smoothie. “You ready for Monday?”

Steve tore the baguette from his sandwich in two and pushed half towards Tony. “I think so. No way to know for sure until it happens though.”

“You’ll be fine,” Bucky butted in from down the table. “Just drink plenty of water, do what Fury says, and don’t ask for a peek under his eyepatch like Barton did last season.”

“Why would I--”

“There’s a bet,” Tony jumped in to explain. “Fury refuses to say what happened or show anyone what it looks like.” 

“Some people think it’s just really badly scarred or something happened that doesn’t let him blink right like Bell’s Palsy,” Gabe offered. 

“ _I_ think--and I’m not alone--that it got--” Tony smacked the back of his own head and made a popping noise with his lips, “got _Any Given Sunday_ ’d back in the day when he was still playing.”

Steve grimaced. That eyeball scene had completely ruined that movie. “I’m gonna stay as far from _all that_ as possible, thanks.”

“Smart,” Bucky nodded.

“Wuss,” Tony murmured.

Steve rolled his eyes and stood to clean up his dishes. “See, you say I’m a wuss, but when I’m still hangin’ around come the regular season, I doubt you’ll be complaining.”

Tony eyed him up and down as Steve walked to the kitchen. “I’m not complaining _now_. Promise.”

“Jesus,” Steve mumbled as his face flamed bright red again.

Bucky threw his napkin on his empty plate and stood too. “And on that note, I think we’re done here. Fellas?”

“Leave your dishes. I’ll take care of them,” Steve called from the kitchen. 

Bucky poked his head into the kitchen and set down a stack of plates before he clapped his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “We won’t see you for practice till week three, but you need anything, and I do mean _anything_ , you call me, okay?”

Steve nodded. “Sure, Buck.”

“And hey.” He squeezed Steve’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about Stark. He talks a lot and he’s kinda...ostentatious, but he’s not a bad guy.” 

“No, I--I know,” Steve offered Bucky a thin smile.

“Okay.” Bucky nodded, even though he didn’t look convinced. With a final pat, he turned to go, but stopped in the doorway. “I’ll bring you and that new wide receiver dinner sometime here in the next coupla weeks. You’ll probably need it.”

Steve felt his smile broaden into something genuine. “Thank you, Bucky. I really appreciate all your help.”

Bucky shrugged. “Sure. Gotta look out for my squishy new quarterback.” He slapped his hand against the doorframe. “We’re outta here. Take care of yourself this week, punk.”

“Get out of here, jerk,” Steve said, shooing him out of the kitchen with a laugh.

Bucky’s voice as he called out to the rest of his friends, Jim and Gabe’s mingled laughter as they retreated down the hallway, and finally the door closing behind them all had filled the house with a sense of family that it had been lacking since the prior summer. Even after they were fully gone, the house settled warm around Steve as he started stacking dishes into the dishwasher. 

“Where do you want these glasses?”

Steve jumped and whirled around. “God _bless_. I thought you’d left with Bucky and them.”

“Sorry.” Tony smiled sheepishly from where he stood in the doorway, four glasses in his hands. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” He nodded down at the glasses. “Where?”

Steve gestured at the counter next to the sink with his chin. “There’s fine.”

“Be right back with the rest,” Tony tossed over his shoulder. A few moments later he was back, setting the rest of their glasses on the counter. He leaned on the counter and watched Steve work for a bit before he spoke. “Got everything settled?”

Steve shrugged. “Mostly. Bucky and his friends really helped.” He glanced at Tony out of the corner of his eye. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Tony smirked, the picture of feigned innocence.

“Sure.” Steve smirked back.

“Hey, uh, what’re you doing next weekend?” Tony asked, pushing a knife in a slow circle on the countertop.

Steve grabbed the knife as its handle wobbled past and put it in the dishwasher, tossed a Cascade pack into the door and started the cycle before turning and leaning back against the kitchen counter, one ankle crossed over the other. “Probably praying for the sweet release of death if the start of literally every other season of my playing career is any indication.” He eyed Tony from head to toe and back again. “Why?”

Tony turned to lean against the counter himself, mirroring Steve’s posture. “I was going to take you someplace to celebrate making it through your first week.”

“Oh, Tony, I don’t know,” Steve demurred. “It’s just...my old boss said he’s going to bring something by for me, but he doesn’t know when he’ll be free yet and--.”

“If you don’t _want_ to, you can just--”

“No, Tony. No.” Steve cut him off. “It’s _not_ that I don’t want to.”

“Okay…” Tony dragged the word out, clearly trying to lift Steve’s thoughts straight out of his brain.

“I...look...I already know I’ll have to work. Whether it’s in the playbook, on the board, or on the house.”

A sly smile crept onto Tony’s face. “Could I _bring_ you dinner to celebrate making it through your first week?”

“I’m not really gonna be much fun,” Steve warned.

Tony shrugged, clearly undeterred. “I can bring a laptop and do SI stuff. Or Iron Man stuff. I’ll figure it out.” He nudged Steve’s arm as he pushed up to standing. “You don’t have to _entertain_ me, Steve. I had a good time with you on Draft Night and I want to have a good time with you after your first week. Whatever that looks like.”

Steve finally let himself smile back, let himself get caught up in Tony’s boundless enthusiasm. “Alright. As long as dinner’s in my meal plan.”

Tony winked. “I’ll make sure it is.” 

Eventually Tony left too, claiming companies that were world leaders in consumer tech and clean energy didn’t run themselves. Steve had walked him out, laughing as Tony had batted his eyelashes at him and thanked him for letting him come over. He’d gone back into the office and spent a couple more hours getting the desk cleaned out and set up how he wanted it and wiping down his old whiteboard. When he’d gone to hang it up in the nook he’d picked out for it, he realized this was the first season he wasn’t worried about just surviving his first week back. The prospect of dinner with Tony, spending time with Tony, even if they were both working, that was going to carry him through the week. He could already tell.

~~*~~

Sunday had passed in a blur of shopping, meal prep, helping Sam get moved in, and tidying, so that by the time he’d collapsed into bed, he’d hardly had a moment the whole day to be nervous about his first day. Monday morning, however, was a different story. He’d woken up with butterflies that refused to settle, and an endless litany of ‘what if’ running through his head. What if he couldn’t keep up. What if he couldn’t click with the offense. What if he couldn’t live up to expectations. 

“Just do you,” he muttered to himself as he was brushing his teeth.

He sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen and drank his coffee and played around with mimicking some calligraphy he’d seen in a stationery shop window when he’d been out grocery shopping while he waited on Sam. 

“You ready to rock and roll?” Sam asked, tromping down from the third floor apartment, bag slung over his shoulder.

Steve nodded and downed the last of his coffee then set the mug in the sink. “Yep.” He shoved his sketchbook and pencil case into his bag, checked for his wallet and phone, then grabbed his keys. “Train?”

Sam shot him a sideways glance. “You know I brought my car with me from LA. I can drive us.”

“West coast boys,” Steve muttered, smirking and shaking his head. 

“What was that?” Sam asked.

“What route were you thinking?” Steve asked at a normal volume, a bland smile on his face.

Sam narrowed his eyes at him. “Waze says to take the Holland Tunnel. If that’s okay with you, east coast boy.”

Steve shoved him down the last step and out the gate. “Who am I to argue with crowdsourcing?”

The drive over into New Jersey ended up being quicker than Steve anticipated, even in rush hour traffic, and in less than an hour they were turning into the Avengers practice complex on the other side of the expressway from MetLife Stadium. It wasn’t until they were pulling into a spot at the practice facility though that the full reality of Avengers fan loyalty hit. 

Fans lined the sidewalks, three deep in places, in front of the entrance and spilled out into the driveway behind barricades. Homemade signs in red and gold welcomed Steve and Sam and a few other names like Thor Odinson and T’Challa Udaku that Steve remembered hearing during the free agency window. A little girl who couldn’t be more than six in a tiny Avengers cheerleading dress waved and shouted Steve’s name as he and Sam made their way across the parking lot.

“Mr. Steve!” She called. “Mr. Steve!”

Steve went over and knelt down on a level with her. “Hello, what’s your name?’

She blushed and ducked her head, suddenly shy. “Ashleigh.” She looked back up at him. “Are you really gonna play for us?”

Steve smiled “Yes, ma’am, I am.” He pointed at her dress. “Will you cheer for me?”

She nodded. “My daddy says you’re gonna be tras--trans--transdent.”

“Well, thank you.” Steve said. He glanced up at the man standing behind her, clearly pleased as punch, and smiled at him too. He looked back down at Ashleigh. “Thank your daddy too.”

“Would you…” the little girl’s dad flushed. “Would it be too much to ask you to sign her dress? She loves this thing. Won’t hardly take it off to let her mom and me wash it.”

Steve glanced back down at her. “Would you like me to sign your dress?”

Little Ashleigh squealed and bounced on her toes. “Can you?”

Steve swung his backpack down and started digging through the front pocket. He found the bags of art supplies he’d been using at the bar that morning and fished a Sharpie out. 

She turned around and patted at her shoulder with the opposite hand. “Back here?”

“Of course.” He scribbled his signature against the tiny, delicate shoulder blade then dropped the Sharpie back into his bag. “There you go.”

She whipped back around and reached through the metal barricade and caught the leg of his pants. “Thank you, Mr. Steve. Good luck this year.”

Steve smiled as he stood back up. “Thank you, Miss Ashleigh.”

Sam caught him around the shoulders. “You are a good egg, Mr. Steve.”

Steve elbowed him, laughing. “You try saying no the first time a kid talks to you like that.”

“I already know I’m a lost cause,” he replied. “My little cousins all asked for signed UCLA jerseys this past Christmas. And they all got ‘em.”

“So will they be getting Avengers jerseys this year?” Steve teased.

“God I hope so,” Sam answered.

Steve _knew_ today was going to be a lot of spectacle, but he wasn’t quite prepared for the sense of anticipation that flooded him when he saw the cheerleaders lined up, fully decked out like it was gameday, shaking their poms and smiling. Combine them with the fans, and the thumping bass from “Thunderstruck” that was pouring through the speakers, and it finally clicked. 

This was real. 

Inside, a nervously smiling young man scurried over to greet them. “Welcome to the Avengers complex, Mr. Rogers and Mr...uh...Mr. Wilson. It’s--I’m Peter. One of the interns this season.” He gestured off to the right, deeper into the building. “You’re going to start today in the film suite. Wanda and Pietro, two of our social engagement magicians, are both in there and they’ll make sure you get all set up.”

“Thanks, man,” Sam said with a smile.

Down the hall Peter had indicated, a young lady in a smart red dress stood outside the door marked Film while her partner was in the room fiddling with the computer and projector setup. “Gentlemen,” she said with a slight nod. “Welcome to the Avengers. If you’ll just take a seat anywhere you see a StarkPad, we’ll be getting started promptly at nine.”

Steve and Sam thanked her and slid into seats next to each other in the second row. “Like school and church,” Steve murmured as he dug out the notebook he always brought to team meetings and a pen.

“Hmm?” Sam hummed idly. He glanced over. “You do realize the StarkPad is for the notes, right?”

Steve shrugged. “I remember more this way.”

“Have I mentioned you’re a nerd?”

“Not in the last ten minutes, no,” Steve retorted.

While Sam was still laughing at him, a lithe man with a quick smile dropped into one of the seats directly in front of them. He turned that smile on them. “Oh, wow, you--you’re Steve Rogers. I know you.” He stuck out his hand, grinning even wider when Steve accepted it. “Scott. Lang. I was playing last year at Cal Poly.”

“Nice to meet you,” Steve replied, still shaking Scott’s hand. He glanced over at Sam, willing him to come to his rescue, but Sam just shrugged, suddenly deeply interested in the contents of his backpack.

“I--oh Jesus, sorry, that was an awkwardly long handshake,” Scott said, and he released Steve like he’d been burned. “Sorry. It’s just--I watched your game--your last game--your bowl game.” He took a breath. “You were amazing.”

Steve flushed, quietly pleased he’d made such an impression on this guy. “Thanks. What, uh, what position do you play?”

“Tight end,” Scott replied, beaming.

Sam fixed him with an appraising stare. “You look a little...small to be a tight end.”

Scott shrugged, undeterred. “Size isn’t everything. I led the FCS in receptions and yards per catch this past season. Didn’t go till the fifth round, though, so, y’know, gotta grind.”

As the last couple of newly signed players filtered in, Pepper Potts stepped to the front of the room. “Gentlemen,” she said, fixing them all with a confident smile. “I’d like to welcome you once again to the New York Avengers organization. We’re looking forward to a successful season, and I’m sure each of you will find a way to contribute to that success in a meaningful way. I know you met at least some of our staff when you were drafted or signed, but you’ll get to know most of our front office personnel during OTAs and camp and, of course, during the season. For now, though, I want to turn things over to our head coach, Mr. Nick Fury.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Fury said, coming to stand next to her. “Now, I’m not gonna spend a lot of time talking to you because we have a lot to do and, as always, less time than I’d like to get it done. But we’ve got a solid group of guys assembled this year, and you’re going to be some of them. And while I may be in charge, I’m a big believer in compartmentalization. What that means is, the rest of my staff are experts in the thing they do, so that they can each train you up the best they can. And if you listen to them during the week and listen to me on Sundays, we’re gonna come out on top.” He glanced down at the tablet he’d laid on the front table. “Before we can get you in with equipment and in the gym for a little wakeup workout, take a look at the tablet in front of you. This is my playbook. Now it’s your playbook. I sincerely hope it’s going to become your best friend.” He fixed them with his one good eye. “You won’t be happy if it doesn’t.”

He glanced at a woman at the end of the front row. “Ms Hill needs to speak with you about the off-field part of this week’s work, and then we’ll get going.”

Ms Hill nodded at him as she stood, smoothing out her sharply tailored pencil skirt. 

“Don’t wanna mess with _her_ ,” Sam whispered.

Steve nodded. Ms Hill looked like she was the kind of no-nonsense who could subdue even the rowdiest players without breaking a sweat.

Instead of launching straight into her spiel, she spent a moment at the computer consulting with Pietro while he was pulling up a slideshow for her. Once he got it started, she turned the full force of her gaze on them. “My name is Maria Hill, and I’m the director of pro personnel. We’re going to spend a good bit of time together during the next ten days because as new NFL players, I’m legally obligated to inform you of your rights, responsibilities, and the best practices as a salaried member of the NFL Player’s Association. We’re going to touch broadly on those things today, but we’ll go into extensive detail over the coming two weeks.”

She spent the next hour walking them through the basics for the actual employment side of being a professional athlete. At one point about halfway through, Steve scribbled in the margins of his notes “why is job orientation boring literally everywhere?” Sam glanced over and saw it and snorted with repressed laughter.

“Okay, the last thing we need to discuss is the media.”

Steve cringed. He’d hated dealing with the media in college. He knew it was only going to be worse now though. The expectation that he be available to the media every single day he was working made his stomach clench. 

“Sharon Carter is our head of public relations.” A delicate blonde woman stood up and offered them a small wave. “She, or someone on her team, should be the first voice the media hears on all team matters. And I do mean all. Sometimes that will mean saying nothing and waiting for her to speak first. Sometimes that will mean being discreet and following the precedent she’s set in other, similar situations.” 

Hill stepped back, and Sharon came to take her turn in front of them. When she spoke, her voice was friendly, but firm. She clearly expected all of them to listen and take her seriously the first time. “I know we’ve all seen, and probably laughed over, players who end up on ESPN or the news for doing something wild or reckless or dangerous or _illegal_ .” She stared each of them down before she continued. “You need to realize that the definition for wild and reckless and dangerous and illegal has just gotten much narrower for you. Going out to see and be seen at the hottest clubs even the night before a game. Those repeated speeding tickets. Stepping out on your wife or girlfriend with someone else. Having marijuana or a weapon in your bag at the airport. While these may be the sorts of things my team and I get paid to handle, they are certainly not the kinds of things we _want_ to handle. You should not be doing any of the sorts of things that will make ESPN want to single you out in a negative, or even gossipy, way. Any coverage like that will almost certainly have consequences for your career. Am I clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve murmured along with the rest of the rest of them, but he spoke the words through bloodless lips. 

Suddenly keeping his mom’s death private seemed like the least of his concerns. Pity was one thing; he could handle that, and something like his mother’s passing would eventually become a miniscule footnote. Other things, like the reason behind an extremely quiet personal life, couldn’t be so easily overlooked. Personal lives never went away, after all.

Steve started cross hatching a sphere on the bottom corner of his page to keep his hand from shaking, deliberately averting his gaze when Hill asked if there were any questions for her or Sharon.

A huge, hulking blonde guy raised his hand. “Ma’am, if I find myself currently unattached, but a young lady comes into my life, what of that?”

“‘What of that’ what? Gotta narrow that down.” Sam muttered.

Sharon Carter smiled blandly up at him. “Well, obviously, at a certain point we can’t help who we fall in love with, but you always want to be conscious of who you’re allowing into your personal life. You don’t want your narrative off the field to overshadow your narrative on the field.”

“Thank you,” big, blonde, and burly replied with a nod.

“I really don’t want to be the bad guy here,” Sharon addressed all of them. “My team and I are here for you just like the coaches and support staff are. Please don’t hesitate to ask us any questions you have. You have my team’s contact details on your tablet. Let us help you.”

“Okay,” Hill said, clicking off the projector. “I’ve been told we’re going to take you down to the team dining room for some lunch then you’re off to equipment and then Luke in the weight room.”

The trek down to lunch wasn’t far, and Scott attached himself to Steve and Sam, content to fill the space between them with good-natured chatter as they walked. Once they’d found a table, Steve pushed his food around on his plate, hoping no one would notice he didn’t have much of an appetite.

“May I join you?” Blondie from their morning session asked.

“Sure,” Sam gestured to the empty chair. “I’m Sam, by the way.”

“Scott.”

When Steve didn’t speak up right away, Sam kicked his ankle under the table. “Steve.”

“Thor. It is a pleasure to meet you, Sam, Scott, Steve.” He nodded to each of them before digging into his food.

“You were playing for Baltimore last year, right?” Scott chimed in.

Thor beamed. “I was indeed. Guard. Unfortunately, cap space is a difficult thing on a team with so many veterans, so I decided to seek my fortunes elsewhere. I’m pleased to meet so many new offensive hires since we’ll be working together.”

Steve smiled weakly and pointed his fork at Sam and Scott. “Them for sure. I’ve heard the phrase ‘early and often’ about Sam since Draft Night.”

“You must not discount yourself, Steve,” Thor said as he stood to refill his coffee. “Fitzsimmons is a reliable quarterback, but he has grown old in terms of this game. You will be indispensable before long.”

Steve just shrugged, noncommittal.

“Hey, you okay?” Sam murmured.

“Fine,” Steve replied, eyes on his now completely rearranged plate.

Sam’s pointed look at Steve’s untouched food said he clearly didn’t believe it. “You sure?”

Steve forced his worries down. He’d call Natasha tonight and see what she thought. He nodded. “Yeah. Totally.”

~~*~~

“I might actually be dying,” Sam groaned hours later as they made their way back to his car. “This Cage guy is gonna be an ass kicker.”

“No kidding,” Steve agreed, slumping into the passenger seat of Sam’s car. “I think Blackjacks are my new least favorite thing.” 

“And as a closer. To a wakeup workout. Who does he think we are?”

Steve fixed him with an exaggeratedly serious face and scowled at them the way Luke Cage, the strength and conditioning coach, had been. “Why, Sam, we’re Avengers.”

“Don’t make me laugh, my abs already hurt,” Sam begged through his wheezy chuckles.

Steve dug his phone out of his bag and sent Natasha a quick text while they were sitting in traffic.

> _Can we talk tonight?_
> 
> _Of course. Call me whenever._

Back at the house, Sam went upstairs with a tired “don’t wake me up unless the building’s on fire.” Alone, Steve hustled through a shower and repacked his bag for tomorrow before he went downstairs in search of food. 

Skipping lunch meant he was starving now, but he forced himself to only put one of the dinners he’d prepped for the week in the oven to heat. He leaned on the counter while he waited and scrolled idly through his notifications. Tony had texted partway through the day.

> _Hope your first day as a real, grown-up NFL player went well._

God. He couldn’t. Or, at least, he shouldn’t. Although he could name a fair few times when ‘shouldn’t’ hadn’t exactly stopped him.

> _Met a tiny fan. She was adorable...let me sign her Avengers cheer dress and everything._
> 
> _Although I think the phrase “death by sit ups” would really accurately summarize my afternoon._

Tony didn’t take long to reply.

> _I knew the fans would love you. They’ll see you like I do...just you wait._
> 
> _I’ll have a word with Cage, though._
> 
> _Death by sit ups is not how you should go._

Steve smiled. Tony could sure be charming.

> _Don’t._

Steve bit his lip and made a terrible decision.

> _I need him to get my ass in shape._
> 
> _Out of curiosity, how should I go?_
> 
> _My honest answer probably violates HR policies._

Steve burst out laughing.

> _That sounds like something Ms. Hill would have Thoughts on._

Tony's response came in a series of rapid-fire texts.

> _I’m certain she would._
> 
> _No joke, that woman terrifies me._
> 
> _More than Pep._
> 
> _I’m fairly certain that between the two of them, they could actually Jimmy Hoffa someone._

The oven timer going off jolted Steve back to reality, but after he’d retrieved his dinner from the oven, he couldn’t resist sending Tony one more message.

> _Well, I won’t tell HR if you don't._

After bolting his food, Steve forced himself to ignore the little red number on his text app and instead dialled Natasha. Best to get this over with, whatever she’d have to say.

“Hey, Steve,” she answered after just one ring. “How’d the first day go?”

“Good.” He hesitated. “Fine.” 

She was instantly on alert. “That doesn’t sound good. What happened?”

“Nothing.” He sighed. “I...uh...I had a question for you. Something they were talking about in one of our sessions that I kind of...wanted an outside perspective on.”

“Shoot.”

“The head of PR, she was talking about--”

“Now, Steve, you listen to whatever she tells you,” Natasha cut in bluntly. “These PR people know what it takes to keep a player on the field and out of the news for the wrong reasons.”

“No, I know, but…” Steve took a deep breath and took the plunge. “She was talking about dating and she basically said not to date anyone that would make your narrative off the field to overshadow your narrative on the field. And I--I think I get it, but I guess at the same time I...don’t.”

Natasha stayed silent long enough that Steve actually took the phone away from his ear to see if the call was still connected. “Well...it’s…” it was Natasha’s turn to take a deep breath. “A team won’t ever tell you you _can’t_ date someone. Unless it’s illegal--”

“Yeah, but then the police would be involved anyway,” Steve finished for her.

“Exactly. But think about what she’s _really_ saying, Steve. If you’re with someone dramatic. Any kind of dramatic. People are going to talk. And if they’re talking about who you’re seeing, it becomes a distraction. For you. For your teammates. And it becomes a tool for whoever you’re playing.”

Steve nodded even though Natasha couldn’t see him. She was right. Apart from a few drunken fumblings in high school and his freshman year of college, Steve had remained quietly and resolutely single. Even before he’d sewn up the starting role in college, he’d known. His silence was about protecting more than just himself.

Still, he’d just hoped...

Natasha sighed, breaking him out of his thoughts. “What am I about to be dealing with here, Rogers?” she asked gently.

Steve clenched his jaw, determined to keep himself under control. “Absolutely nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind comments and kudos.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes:
> 
> I’m sure this isn’t *exactly* how these sorts of sit-downs go, but this is fiction, so YOLO.
> 
> Can I just say, researching NFL players and their diet plans was WILD. I read an article once a few years ago where JJ Watt described his body as a sports car and that he refused to put bad fuel in the tank. I sort of understood, but something about this project has made me get it. 
> 
> This isn’t a football thing, but Lady Ace was the name of one of the choppers used in the US evacuation of Saigon at the end of the Vietnam War, so that’s what I’ve named my fake banh mi restaurant.
> 
> Also, please remember with me the sturm und drang when Michael Sam came out right before he entered the 2014 draft. Yes, he was drafted, but the Rams cut him, Dallas picked him up and then waived him, and by 2015 he stepped away from professional football citing his own mental health (800% understandable). In my head, Steve plays in a universe where this happened, so he’s very well aware of the price of being out in the NFL.
> 
> As always, thank you to the incomparable Betheflame and Kestrel337 for wrangling my silly ass. You two are the actual best.

Friday mid-afternoon found Steve coming in off the field from doing agility drills with Cage and heading to the media relations suite, looking for the conference room Sharon Carter had put on his schedule. She’d been interviewing everyone over the course of the week, and the blessing of being the only quarterback meant he got to go last. The curse, of course, was that he had to face her by himself.

“Hey, Mr. Rogers,” Peter said from down on the floor where he was examining the open front of the copier. “You need help with something?”

“I feel like I should be asking you that,” Steve replied. “You need a hand?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t--” he yanked on something in the guts of the copier and ended up flat on his backside. He sighed ruefully then looked up at Steve. “No. I got it, Mr. Rogers. Ms. Carter’s waiting for you, and I don’t want to make you late.”

Steve nodded slowly. “If you’re sure.”

Peter scowled at the inside of the copier. “Yeah.”

One of the young ladies Steve remembered from Monday joined them at the copier, a patient smile on her face. “Steve?”

“Wanda, right?” Steve asked.

She nodded. “Sharon sent me to come looking for you. If you’ll come with me?”

Steve followed her through the warren of cubicles and offices that made up the media relations suite, looking at the posters of prior legends lining the walls. “You kept the Jets pictures?” 

Wanda nodded. “Mr. Stark said it’s important for us to remember where we came from. What made us who we are.” 

Steve nodded absently. It made sense.

She pulled open the door to the conference room and gestured him through. “Right in here.”

Sharon looked up from her laptop and smiled warmly at Steve. “Mr. Rogers. Please, come have a seat. How has your first week been?”

Steve slid into the chair across from her. “Fine. Everyone’s been really great.”

“You’re ready for a weekend though, I bet?” she asked with a conspiratorial wink.

“Yeah. I could use a couple days away from Cage.”

Sharon laughed brightly. “Everyone says that after their first week with him. He’s cut player time in medical down by more than half, though, so he must be doing something right.”

Steve nodded. “I can believe that. I’ve been sore, but not _hurting_ , you know?”

“That’s good to hear.” Sharon turned her attention back to her laptop, clicking around to pull up whatever she needed. “Okay, so, I’m sure you’ve been hearing from other people the point of this sit-down. We want to take some time to get to know you. Both for us so we can do our job, and for our fans and media partners who are very anxious to get to know their new Avengers.”

Steve nodded. “Sam said it was like a cross between a Wikipedia bio and a Reddit AMA.”

“He’s not far off,” Wanda jumped in when Sharon got distracted by a ding from her email. “You’ve done media guide profiles while you were at Texas, I’m sure?”

“Yeah. Nicknames, favorite movies, pregame playlist, most memorable on-field moment. That kind of thing?”

Wanda nodded. “Exactly. So it’ll be some of that, but it’ll also be a chance for us--” she gestured between herself and Sharon, “to get a handle on _you_.”

“Sorry,” Sharon said, looking up from her screen. “Everyone’s trying to rush things in on a Friday afternoon.” She smiled. “So, you and I are going to have a chat. Wanda will take some pictures while we talk so she can post a few photos on our Instagram with a link to the writeup I’ll do. Then you’ll be out the door until Monday. Sounds good?”

“Sure.” 

Over the next hour they went through everything about Steve’s life any of their fans could possibly want to know. From how he started playing, “seventh grade, I thought my ma was gonna have a heart attack the first time I got tackled” to why he’d chosen Texas “great school, great team...what else could I have wanted,” to his nickname in college “Steeb. Trying to say my name with a broken nose wasn’t my proudest moment.” To what he liked to do in his free time “drawing, but I’ve been planning on fixing up an old motorcycle myself.” 

Wanda had snapped a few pictures while they’d talked, mostly, Steve noticed, when they could coax him into a smile or actual laughter. They were good at their job, putting Steve more at ease than most of the interviews he’d been a part of since he’d started playing college ball, but this was, at its heart, facetime with the media, so Steve kept his answers carefully “camera ready.”

“Well, I can see you’re going to be a dream to work with,” Sharon said as she finished typing his final responses. “You know how to keep yourself edited, that’s for sure.”

“I--thanks,” Steve said with a small nod.

“Wanda, do you have what you need?”

Wanda tapped at her phone a few more moments then looked up with a smile. “Got it. Photos are ready, I just need the link to his bio and we’re good to post.”

Sharon turned her attention back to him as Wanda slipped out of the room, presumably to finish whatever she was posting about him on Instagram. “Now, Steve, there’s a few things I need to know, just so I’m aware of all the pieces on the board, okay?”

Steve clenched his hands under the desk. “Okay.”

“Do you have any personal social media? Twitter? Instagram? Snapchat?”

He shook his head. “No.”

Sharon clicked on something on her laptop. “Okay. Make sure you let my team know if you get one; we can help you get verified. Anything I need to know about you that hasn’t come up yet? Anything you think could become a Story on ESPN?”

“My, um, my mom,” Steve answered.

“Right. Your agent emailed us about that right after you signed your contract. I put a note in your file that we as an organization respect your right to keep such a personal loss private and as such we won’t offer any comment or statement on it.”

Steve smiled, relieved it could be just that simple. “Thanks.”

Sharon smiled back and patted his wrist. “Of course. You’re not the first player who’s wanted privacy following a loss like this, and you certainly won’t be the last.” 

She scrolled for a moment before she asked her next question. “Now, ticketing needs to know if you’re going to need season tickets in the WAGS section. And they remind you that anyone two or over needs a ticket to enter on gameday.”

Steve shook his head again. “Nope.”

Sharon looked at him over the edge of her laptop. “You’re single?”

“Yeah.”

She shook her head. “Oh, Steve. You better brace yourself. Nobody thirst tweets quite like female football fans.”

“And nobody blames the girlfriend quite like the male fans,” Steve murmured.

Sharon laughed. “That’s true enough. Romo was proof of that. Ticketing holds I think one or two tickets in that section for everyone on the final roster once the season starts; in case you get a girlfriend. They don’t want you to be caught out wanting to bring her to a game and there’s no seat.”

Steve nodded a little numb. “Sure.”

Once Steve had answered, she fixed him with a stare an awful lot like her look from Monday. “Also, it is important that you know the Avengers organization has a zero tolerance policy for domestic violence. There’s a clause in your contract, and if you violate it, you will be cut. Not traded. Cut.”

“Of--of course,” he stammered.

Sharon nodded. “Now that I’ve put the fear of God in you, you’re free to go.”

Steve stood to leave with a wan smile. “Thanks. I think.”

Sharon reached out to grab his wrist. “Since this week has been largely ramp-up, we’ve kept the media out, but you can expect time with them starting on Monday. We’ll have a quick meeting before your first session, though, so you’ll know what to expect.”

“Okay.” He nodded. At least he had the whole weekend to get his mind right. “Thanks, Ms. Carter.”

She released his wrist with a smile. “Have a good weekend, Steve. Rest up.”

“Thanks. You too...or, well...yeah.”

Out in the hall, Steve forced himself to walk at a normal person pace until he was back in the central atrium. He really didn’t want to start his relationship with someone who seemed to have his best interests in mind by lying to her, but Natasha had been right. He was here now, and he would try not to rock the boat. Although his texts with Tony, which had become a nightly event even after only a week, were making that hard.

“Locker,” he muttered to himself, turning towards the locker room, anxious to get out of the sweaty clothes that had dried on him.

Sam was sitting in front of his own locker, fiddling with his phone, but also clearly waiting for Steve to come back. “How did your _one_ interview take longer than the one I did with all the rest of the new receivers?”

Steve shrugged as he grabbed his towel. “I’m more interesting than you?”

“Dick!” Sam hollered after him.

“You love me anyway,” Steve hollered back. He rushed through his shower, ready to get his weekend started since the weekend meant two whole days of only recovery workouts and the chance to actually see Tony again instead of only exchanging vaguely flirtatious texts with him.

“Your phone was blowing up,” Sam said when Steve got back out, not looking up from his own phone.

Steve grabbed his phone to see who needed him that urgently. A couple texts from his old boss and a small barrage from Tony. He opened up the texts from Mr. Makkouk and responded that yes, 9AM tomorrow was fine for him to come by. The texts from Tony hoping he’d had a good week and asking if they were still on for tomorrow but not to expect him too early because Tony was many things, but a morning person was not one of them made him smile. He’d wait to answer them till he got home. Where Sam couldn’t peek over his shoulder.

“Get dressed, you dork,” Sham chided him. “I’m hungry and the longer you stand there staring at your phone, the longer I have to wait to eat.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve dropped his phone back into his backpack and started scrubbing himself dry. “How’d today go?”

Sam shrugged. “I should survive the weekend. You know, I think Lang might actually die if he doesn’t have someone to talk to all the time.”

“He’s nice, though,” Steve said from under the towel he was using on his hair. Steve didn’t think Scott Lang had ever met a stranger in his life, but his perpetual upbeat attitude also meant he worked well with basically everyone. 

“He’s alright,” Sam conceded with an ill-concealed smile. “I’ll tell you who’s wild, though--”

“Thor?” Steve guessed.

“Yeah. Did you know he’d never played football in his life till he came to the states to throw hammer for Wisconsin’s track and field team? The other linemen had to teach him the rules.”

Steve’s head popped out of the neck of an Avengers T-shirt and he pretended to consider before he said, “Seems reasonable.”

“What? No it does not!”

“We had a few guys who did football and track at Texas,” Steve pointed out, raking a comb through his hair.

“Yeah, you had guys who ran routes in the fall and ran decathlon in the spring. Which they’d probably been doing since junior high. You did not have big, Nordic, giants who came to college to swing around a rock on a string and then say ‘oh, what’s football?’ and then end up making the offensive line something people cared about outside of when it failed.”

Steve threw his towels in the laundry, shoved his dirty clothes in his “ew gross” bag and slung it and his backpack over his shoulder. “You finally ready?”

“Been ready,” Sam answered, standing up. “You wanna watch a movie when we get home?”

“Sure, what were you thinking?” Steve asked.

“ _Grosse Pointe Blank_?” Sam offered. 

Steve shrugged. “Never seen it. Any good?”

“It’s great. Funny as hell, which is good because I don’t think I’m up for anything serious tonight.”

“I know I’m not,” Steve agreed as they pulled out of the parking lot.

Back home, Steve was still in the process of getting food when Sam came trotting back downstairs, dinner in one hand and movie in the other. 

“What’s taking you so long?” Sam asked, fetching up at the bar to watch Steve cook. 

“I wanted breakfast for dinner and I needed to clean some about-to-go-bad veggies out of the fridge. So, frittata.” Steve put his phone down and glanced back over his shoulder. “Don’t feel like you have to wait on me to eat.”

“Oh, trust me, I don’t,” Sam replied around a mouthful of chicken. 

Steve rolled his eyes and turned back to the oven to check on his food. After he’d turned out the oven light, he picked his phone back up. Tony had already answered.

> _You’ll love it._
> 
> _Joan Cusack is the best part._
> 
> _Hands down._
> 
> _I’m glad you’re watching something funny._

Steve smiled down at his phone.

> _Why?_

Tony’s answer was quick and Steve felt a wash of fondness overtake him when he read the reply.

> _You look so...happy when you laugh._

When the timer went off on his phone, a quick jiggle of the pan told him his dinner was ready, or at least not likely to give him salmonella, so he pulled it out. “Want any?”

Sam shook his head. “I’m good. Movie?”

“Hell yes,” Steve answered, grabbing his plate and water.

In the living room, he let Sam fire up the DVD player while he pulled his phone back out.

> _Doesn’t everyone look happy when they laugh?_

“Who’re you texting?” Sam asked before trying to make a grab for Steve’s phone.

“Jesus...no one,” Steve squawked, brandishing his elbow at Sam and holding his phone out in his extended other arm when Sam made a second dive for his phone. 

“Doesn’t look like ‘no one.’ Smiling at your phone like that”

“It’s just a friend.”

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to tell me twice,” Sam raised his hands in surrender and sat back. “But you gotta let her sit with the wives and girlfriends once the season starts or folks’ll talk.”

“It’s not like that,” he insisted. Just to be on the safe side, he jammed his phone between his leg and the couch. Let Sam come after it now.

“If you say so.” Sam clearly didn’t believe him.

Steve scowled. “It’s not,” he muttered.

> _Well sure._
> 
> _But you look like someone just made your whole day when you laugh._

Steve blushed to the roots of his hair. Maybe it was like that.

~~*~~

**@NYAvengers**

We’re rounding out our week getting to know our new Avengers with Steve Rogers (QB). Read his full profile here: https://bit.ly/3cNHmoT

> Reply from **@Avengers_endzone**
> 
> Working his ass off already. Good guy.
> 
> Reply from **@AvengersAssemble**
> 
> Cool dude. Can’t wait for preseason!
> 
> Reply from **@AmericanThighs**
> 
> Look at that smile. I might literally cry if he’s got a GF 😍💦

~~*~~

Saturday morning after a quick sprints and endurance workout, Steve had barely turned off the shower when he heard Sam yelling for him from upstairs.

“Why,” Sam demanded from the top of the stairs, “ is the _owner_ of our team at our front door?”

“Shit,” Steve muttered as he threw himself back into his bedroom and started pulling on clothes. “Gimme a second and I’ll let him in.”

“Still doesn’t explain why he’s _here_.” The note of disbelief in Sam’s voice grew. 

“Is pocket sand an option?” he asked himself as he trundled down the stairs to get the door. He prayed Sam would just leave it, but he did also understand Sam’s confusion. Team owners did not take this much of a personal interest in a new draftee this long after signing and this long before the season actually started.

“Holy Jesus,” Tony said in lieu of an actual greeting when Steve yanked open the door. “You look…”

Steve looked down at the ratty but clean Texas Strength and Conditioning shirt he had on with a pair of equally ratty gym shorts. “Like I just got out of the shower? 

“Sure...let’s go with that,” Tony replied with a smirk.

Steve rolled his eyes. He knew how he looked after a workout. Tony had plenty of room to be smug himself though in pants that highlighted his ass and thighs and a shirt that reminded people he didn’t just hide in a lab all day.

He motioned Tony inside, then turned to head back to the library to get his ‘book’ work for the day started. “I didn’t think you’d be here so early. You sure didn’t make yourself sound like a morning person when we were talking earlier this week.”

Tony had followed Steve into the library, but he veered off to examine the pictures Bucky had taken such a shine to. “I don’t know. I just feel like I’ve been hearing about your workouts all week and haven’t gotten to see the…” he glanced over at Steve, “payoff for myself.”

Steve laughed, bright and happy. “You’ll give a guy ideas talkin’ like that.”

He winked. “As long as they’re the right kind of ideas.”

“Jesus Tony, the way you talk,” Steve said, shaking his head and blushing.

“Not just talk,” Tony fired back. “Now where can I lurk? No rest for the wicked, you know.”

“Wicked’s right,” Steve murmured. He pointed. “Desk’s all yours if you want it, but I can clear the coffee table off too if you need more space.”

“The desk should be fine. Just some coding today.”

“Coding for what?” Steve asked idly as he pulled up the run offense section of the playbook. He started drawing the offense’s lineup before reaching into the bowl he had sitting on the table under the white board. 3-4 nickel. He hated nickel packages; it always felt like there were twelve defenders in a nickel read. 

“HUD updates for the suit. Trying to cut lag on some response times.”

“It’s always about response times,” he said with a smile before turning back to frown between the playbook open on the table in front of him and the card in his hand as if inspiration would magically appear.

“Quicker means safer in this case,” Tony said mildly.

“Safe is good,” he agreed. He finally got an idea, switched colors and started drawing out actions and reactions after the snap, making notes in the playbook as he went. Behind him, he heard Tony boot up his computer. 

“You got WiFi, Friday Night Lights?” 

Steve turned around and shot Tony a sideways look. “Check the middle drawer. Notecard with the password should be towards the back.”

“Fort Knox, I see,” he jibed. 

“Don’t have to run upstairs to look at the router every time I need it,” Steve shrugged, unperturbed.

Instead of going for the WiFi password right away, though, Tony came and stood next to Steve and picked up the little green tupperware sitting next to the bowl of defensive schemes. “I recognize this.”

“Reminds me what got me here,” Steve said with a small smile and went back to his strategizing.

Tony drummed his fingers against the lid of the container before turning back to the desk. “Smart and sentimental.”

In the silence that followed, the occasional squeak of his markers and the steady clack of Tony’s keyboard settled Steve into his head enough so he could actually concentrate. Working his way through the run plays, Steve started to pick up the pattern to Fury’s play design, and he wondered if there were specific collections of plays he liked to run against individual teams. A question for Monday, he supposed.

At one point, he paused to text Bucky a question about Fury’s fourth down attempt rate, but otherwise they spent the morning quietly uninterrupted until the chime of the Feed the Body alarm on his phone made Steve stop. As soon as he finished the play he was working on, he turned around to ask Tony what he wanted for lunch, but Tony had wandered off. 

“Tony?” Steve called.

“Back here,” his voice filtered through from the back of the house. When Steve found him staring out the dining room window at the back garden, Tony looked over and smiled. “You didn’t tell me you had a motorcycle.”

“That’s because I don’t. Not yet, anyway.”

Tony pointed at the motorcycle sitting under a tarp on the little paved patio. “So you keep a horse under that cover then?”

Steve grinned. “Yep. Won the 1940 Santa Ana Handicap and everything.” He crossed his arms and nodded out at the bike. “It was a graduation gift. Doesn’t run yet. So, technically, I don’t have a motorcycle. I have a really huge paperweight.”

“Can I see?” Tony asked.

Steve shrugged. “If you want. It’s very...as-is right now though.”

He led the way out into the backyard and whipped the cover off the cherry red Indian Chief. 

Tony whistled. “This is bike porn.” He stepped over for a closer look. “When you’re ready to get it running, I know a guy.”

“I am a guy,” Steve answered mildly.

Tony looked up at Steve from where he’d been kneeling to peer at the engine, clearly impressed. “Oh really?”

“For the most part. One of the girls I went to high school with, her dad runs a restoration garage. He hired me to answer the phones, but let me start actually helping after I finished my first auto tech class.” 

Steve watched Tony admire the bike, prodding occasionally at different parts of the underbelly. “So not to be ‘that guy’, but unless you want hungry to become hangry, I should probably eat,” Steve said after another moment of watching Tony poke at his bike.

Dusting his hands off on his jeans as he stood, Tony nodded. “Any ideas?”

“Anything’s fine,” Steve answered. He tugged the cover back down over the Indian then turned to Tony with a smile. “Today’s my cheat day, so I’m only bound to a calorie count.”

“Burger?” Tony offered.

“Sure.” He glanced sidelong at Tony. “You can pick, though. Apart from the sandwiches from Lady Ace we got last weekend, I usually just cook for myself.”

Tony pulled his phone out of his pocket, and a few quick taps later, he held it to his ear. He shot Steve a grin while he waited for the call to connect. “You trust me?” Steve nodded right as Tony shifted his attention to whoever had picked up the phone. “Raven? Can you do me a favor? I need some food this afternoon. No, just me,” he stopped partway down the hall and glanced back at Steve. Wary. “And a date.”

Steve smiled, quietly pleased, and nodded even as his gut clenched. 

Tony’s whole face lit up with his answering smile. “Yeah, you know what I like. Just double it. Thank you, Miss Almendarez.” 

“Best burgers in Brooklyn,” he promised as he slid his phone back into his pocket. 

“Say that three times fast,” Steve murmured.

Tony grinned sharklike. “I can if you like.”

“So, if this is a date,” Steve said, deliberately ignoring Tony’s bait. He’d felt like they’d been circling around this very thing, and he wanted it. Good God he wanted it. He dropped onto the couch in the front room then patted the cushion next to him. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask,” Tony agreed, a little wariness creeping into his eyes even as he curled sideways onto the couch facing Steve. 

“Why’d you buy a whole football team?”

“I was having a midlife crisis.”

Steve laughed and shifted towards Tony like they were sharing secrets. “I thought when people had a midlife crisis they bought a car.”

“Oh I did that too,” Tony nodded proudly. “Jarvis, our butler when I was younger, he was a Jets fan, and when the old owner said he was interested in selling, I found myself interested in buying.” 

Tony poked the back of Steve’s hand where it rested across his thigh. “Why Texas?”

“Money and weather.” Steve picked at a loose thread on the seam of the couch cushion while he tried to figure out what to say that wouldn’t sound deeply self pitying. “I like sunny weather and not having student loan debt. Texas made me an offer that meant I could have both.”

“If Jarvis liked the Jets so much, why’d you rebrand the team?” Steve asked after a moment.

Tony shrugged dismissively. “I’m deeply self-involved.”

“Doesn’t seem that way to me.” Steve retorted. He offered Tony a small smile and shifted so he was sitting sideways, mirroring Tony’s position. “I’ve read about you, y’know.”

“Oh the internet has plenty to say about me.” Tony rolled his eyes. “Usually accompanied by photographic evidence.”

Steve smacked his forearm. “Don’t be obtuse. You’ve forced people to change the way they talk about you. About SI. That’s no small accomplishment.” When Tony finally nodded, Steve prodded gently at his arm again. “So, come on, why’d you rebrand us?”

“I…” Tony hesitated, clearly unsure. Steve could see the moment Tony decided to take the plunge and really answer. “I wanted to make something different. SI was all I was ever expected to do. And I like it, don’t get me wrong, but I wanted to try my hand at something totally new. And when I bought the team, everything was a mess. The front office was this awful, incestuous good old boy’s club, the coaching staff wasn’t interested in winning with integrity, the girls on the cheerleading team weren’t even making minimum wage for fuck’s sake. So I blew it up and started over. Stephen Smith called it the only non-test firing of a Jericho.”

“Jesus, Tony.”

Tony swatted the words away with a dismissive wave. “He wasn’t wrong. But it was worth it. I like seeing kids wearing Avengers jerseys and the way people pack the stadium for home games. Means I built something people are proud to be a part of.” He grinned. “Plus, it’s fun.”

A soft knock on the door put a stop to their conversation. “I’ll grab the food if you grab plates?” Tony offered, already standing to get the door.

Steve nodded. “Sure.”

Down the hall and in the kitchen, outside of Tony’s immediate orbit, Steve took a deep breath and rested his head against the closed cabinet door for a moment before banging his head gently against the wood a couple times for good measure. 

“This is the kind of dramatic Nat meant,” he muttered to himself. 

Steve took another deep breath and straightened up to start pulling down plates and getting condiments out of the fridge. No sense worrying about it now, he supposed. Besides, they hadn’t actually done anything anyone could work into any kind of story. 

Once they were settled, Tony watched Steve take the first bite of his burger, clearly anxious for the verdict.

“This is really good,” Steve said around his mouthful of food. “Like I think I may be spoiled for other burgers good.”

“Told you,” Tony preened before biting into his own meal. “Best. Burgers. In Brooklyn.” A few bites later, he set down his half-eaten burger. “My turn?”

Steve nodded.

“Why football?”

“Honestly?” Steve shook his head at the memory of the look on his mother’s face when he’d brought home the parent packet for seventh grade football. “Because it made my mom mad. I’m pretty sure the only reason she said yes was because she figured I was so scrawny no coach in his right mind would ever put me in the game.”

“Did she ever regret it? Saying yes?”

Steve shrugged. “Probably. I took a nasty hit in the Sugar Bowl that had me seeing stars for a few downs. She had front row seats that year, so I can’t imagine she was thrilled.” 

He reached out and gently tapped a scar on the back of Tony’s hand with his knuckle. “Why’d you tell people you were Iron Man?”

“It--I…” Tony blushed as he met Steve’s eyes then looked down, suddenly shy. “I wanted people to see something besides a self-absorbed asshole when they looked at me.”

“Why’d you let me call you my date?” he asked, turning towards Steve.

Steve stared down at his hand where it rested next to Tony’s on the bar. The cool stone made his palm feel clammy. “I think…” he sighed and looked up to meet Tony’s gaze. “I know you and I are the only ones who know, but I--I think...I don’t want to look at myself and see a liar anymore.”

“Please tell me right now if I’m reading this wrong,” Tony murmured leaning into Steve’s space. 

Steve watched Tony’s lashes flutter as he blinked. Down at their hands laying next to each other, up at Steve’s face. When Tony looked at him, he shook his head, the barest hint of movement, and leaned in himself. “You’re not.”

Tony closed the last few inches between them and kissed Steve softly, gently. It wasn’t earth-shattering. Steve knew his lips were a little dry and a hint of the tang from the ketchup Tony had added to his burger lingered on his tongue, and Steve knew he was probably shaking too much to make him seem in any way together. But it didn’t matter. 

Steve pulled back first, but as he did, he licked his lips, chasing the last of Tony’s taste. 

“That was...wow,” Tony murmured into the space between them.

Before Steve could speak, Tony’s phone started ringing. He pulled it out and frowned down at the screen. “One second.” He tapped the screen. “Jocasta, what’s up?” As he listened, Tony’s frown deepened. “Okay, well I’m not _at_ the tower,” he finally said. “No, I’m--no. I’m out in the boroughs checking on some of the new signees. Making sure they don’t want to run for the hills after the first week. I have a car. I’ll finish up and head that way. Yes, I _promise_ in less than ten minutes.” He hung up with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m going to have to cut this short.”

“It’s not like you run a multinational company or anything. Or moonlight as some kind of hero.” Steve shrugged then offered Tony a small smile as he stood. “I’ll help you get your stuff together.”

Once Tony had packed up his computer and they were standing at the door, he turned to face Steve. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I know what this league is like. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Steve offered him a sad smile. “Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor.”

“Well can discretion have one more kiss before he leaves?”

Instead of answering, Steve leaned in and closed the distance between them this time. He turned his body in towards Tony as he kissed him, and sighed when Tony melted against him.

“I...my head of R and D might actually murder me if I don’t leave,” Tony mumbled against Steve’s lips. 

Pulling back, Steve nodded. “We should do this again sometime. A date, I mean.”

Tony sighed. “I have to go to California next week. We’re powering up a new arc reactor for the West Coast facility. But I’ll be around for the opening of the full training camp week after that. We can go for milkshakes and I’ll wear your letter jacket.”

Steve laughed. “Have a good trip to California.”

Tony swooped in and planted one more kiss on the corner of Steve’s mouth. “I’ll be back before you know it.” And with a wave, he was out the door and down the steps. 

Steve watched him drive away before he shut the door to the house. Once he was alone, he went quietly upstairs to his room, shut the door to his bedroom, and threw himself face down on his bed. At least, he thought to himself as he buried his head in his arms, he really wouldn’t need a ticket for the WAG section.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kind words and kudos have meant so much to me. I'm so glad this little AU of mine is something y'all are enjoying. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you for your patience with this chapter...I got to Thursday last week and it was still only half written, and I had to admit to myself that I could either force out a bleh chapter or I could wait a hot ass second and give you something worth reading. I chose the second option.
> 
> Thanks as always to betheflame and kestrel337 for incomparable help as soundboards, cheer readers, hand holders, and ass kickers. This fic is getting drafted in the first round because of y'all.

A lot of things changed the second Monday of OTAs. 

The media started coming to talk to the new players. They seemed to take an immediate shine to Thor, with his unique take on the game and his effusive personality, and Thor loved them right back, always eager to talk and answer their questions. Steve spent a lot of his time in front of the cameras smiling politely and talking about how great it’d been to work with Isaiah Bradley, Fitzsimmons’ backup from last season. He dodged questions about who he thought would be the number two and who would get relegated to the practice squad, insisting that he and Bradley had been working hard together.

Cage’s tiny, wiry wife slash assistant coach started leading strength and flexibility yoga workouts to close their time in the weightroom. Steve had done yoga in college; Phillips had insisted on it as a recovery tool, so he thought he knew what he was getting himself into. He’d been wrong. Jessica worked them easily as hard as Cage did, but she hid it behind soothing music and a calm voice. Halfway through their practice, he watched Thor literally collapse out of down dog when his arms refused to stop shaking from the effort of holding the pose after going hard on bench. Steve had laughed at the time, but ten minutes later, when she was talking them up into crow, his own tired arms meant he overbalanced and had to tuck into a somersault to avoid bashing his face on the weightroom floor. 

Not everything had been terrible, though. Late Monday night, after Steve was in bed, the lamp turned off, and halfway asleep, his phone pinged with an incoming text, waking him back up. 

> _ How was your day? x _

Steve stared at his phone until the backlight went out. Quickly he brought the screen back to life and tapped out a reply.

> _ Long.  _
> 
> _ I liked spending real time working with Fury this afternoon though.  _
> 
> _ He’s got some interesting ideas about play selection.  _
> 
> _ How’s California? _

He rolled over and groaned into his pillow. ‘How’s California’ in no way translated into what he’d actually wanted to say, which was ‘please tell me you signed your text like that because you want to  _ actually _ kiss me again.’ A series of rapid-fire alerts let him know Tony was apparently in his usual, sociable mood.

> _ Busy. _
> 
> _ Sunny.  _
> 
> _ Hot as fuck.  _
> 
> _ Some decent surf down on the beach tonight though. _
> 
> _ Green energy is great, but it’s such a schmoozefest. I’m ready to be back already. _
> 
> _ We’ll have to see if you can find my freckles when I get back. x _

He rolled himself up tighter in the blankets while he typed his answer.

> _ I chased sun and heat all the way to Texas, so that sounds really nice. _
> 
> _ Never been to a California beach.  _
> 
> _ I don’t think there’s actually anything worse than schmoozing, tbh. _
> 
> _ Wait...you have freckles? _

He closed his eyes, trying to picture Tony the way he’d looked sitting in the front room last weekend, but he couldn’t remember much past the fact that Tony’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. 

> _ They’re there.  _
> 
> _ Hard to see under my tan sometimes unless you’re really close. _
> 
> _ Although if you’re that close to my face, your eyes will probably be closed.  _ 😜

Steve laughed softly. Trust Tony to seize an opportunity to flirt, but he liked the way Tony made him feel. A little reckless. A little wild.

> _ Yeah, if I’m gonna be that close, it probably won’t be to try to count your freckles. _

Tony’s reply was almost instantaneous.

> _ I sure hope not. x _

“Communicate, Rogers,” he murmured to himself as he rolled over to his other side and resettled, staring at the little back and forth of their conversation bubbles.

> _ Why the x? _

He forced himself to turn the ringer off and put his phone face down on the nightstand instead of staring at the screen and willing a reply to come in. The vibrations of an incoming reply rattled his phone not long after he’d put it down, though, so he picked it back up.

> _ My being deeply self-involved extends to wanting to kiss you again. _
> 
> _ Discreetly, promise. _
> 
> _ But that does include via text. x _

Steve laughed, then studiously did not curl around his phone under the blanket like a teenage girl with her first crush.

> _ I like that. _
> 
> _ Might steal it. x _

Tony started signing all his texts with an x after that.

On Tuesday Steve unlocked his phone after washing dishes, fully intending to just check his email then go get ready for bed, but stalled on:

> _ Saw you goofing around in practice with Odinson in a clip on ESPN this afternoon. You looked good. x _
> 
> _ Saw you on the cover of Wired. Could definitely say the same. x _

Wednesday evening right after Steve clicked off NFL Network because he didn’t think he could stand any more pointless speculation about which teams were “playoff bound,” his phone buzzed with:

> _ How mad do you think Stephen Smith and Jim Rome would get if I said the NFL is a hotbed of toxic masculinity? x _
> 
> _ They might have a collective aneurysm. Those two are tiny man-baby peas in a tiny, tiny dick-shaped pod. x _

Thursday he came in from the field feeling well worn and a little sunburned to find:

> _ Watching you run agility drills with no shirt on is going to get me turned in to HR… _
> 
> _ Worth it. x _
> 
> _ That suit you wore for the arc reactor startup isn’t much better, mister. x _

Friday afternoon, Fury started cutting. Steve and Sam had gotten in that morning, and a whole bank of the temporary lockers had been removed from the middle of the locker room. In their morning meeting, Fury reminded them Cut Down Day was August 31, but that he planned on having his roster finalized well before then.

“Now I know you know,” Fury said, glaring around at them with his one good eye during their final meeting of the day, “that two of the quickest ways to distinguish yourself in this league are as a hard worker on the field and as a hard worker on the streets.”

Scott snorted. Sam elbowed him quiet, and T’Challa, the traded on running back who’d barely spoken three words to anyone in the two weeks they’d been together, just scowled across the huddle at them.

“I’m gonna give you some help with the first one and some advice about the second. The help’s this: you’re going to have a couple of our vets who will be your mentors. You got questions, you need advice, you want a shoulder to cry on, talk to them. They’ve lived this life, so they can help you find your feet. You’ll have someone who’s at your position and someone who’s not. They should be making contact with you this weekend.” Fury stood up a little straighter. “Now for the advice. Think about what you can contribute to this city off the field and in the community. We’ve worked hard to build a reputation, and you want to be helping with that.” He stared around at them one more time. “Any questions?”

Steve and the rest of the assembled players shook their heads. What kind of questions could they possibly have with expectations as clear as those. 

“Alright, then.” Fury nodded. “You’ll all be back Monday 9AM. Bring it in.”

They circled up, hands raised. Thor, who’d simply put himself in command of their end of practice breaks, grinned around at all of them. “Avengers, assemble on three...one, two, three--”

“Assemble!” they roared together.

“What’d you think?” Scott asked as they broke and turned back to their lockers to gather their things.

“Bout what?” Sam asked.

Steve shook his head down at his bag in an effort to hide his smirk. Sam always acted like Scott was some bug who’d flown into the locker room, but he constantly saw the two of them horsing around together and studying plays during lunch.

Scott shrugged. “Mentors. Community service.”

“I think it’s a good idea. Help learning this job both on and off the field. Besides, both of mine have already contacted me,” Steve said, waving his phone at them. 

“Who’d you get?” Scott leaned around his locker to ask.

“Fitzsimmons--”

“Shocker,” Sam murmured with a wink and a smile. Steve swatted at him good naturedly.

“And Bucky.”

“So basically all the Howlies because you know his goofy ass doesn’t go anywhere without the rest of that crew,” Sam threw in as he looked at his own phone. “Oooh, got me paired up with Hopkins and Dugan. At least he and Barnes can carpool.”

“You think?” Steve asked as he shouldered his bag and they turned towards the exit.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Bet on it?”

Steve grinned. “Sure. Stakes?”

“Case of soda,” Sam said.

Steve and Sam shook on their bet as the three of them emerged into the late afternoon sun, when Scott immediately peeled off.

“Got a hot date tonight, fellas,” he said waggling his eyebrows at them. “I’ll see you on Monday.” Scott dipped into the car waiting for him and kissed his girlfriend then craned into the backseat to kiss his toddler daughter.

“You think we should tell him we know his date wears diapers?” Sam asked as he returned Scott’s wave.

Steve shook his head and started walking towards Sam’s Accord. “Nah. He’d know you were jealous.”

“Of a two year old? C’mon, man!” Sam hollered after him and started running to catch up to Steve’s trailing laughter.

~~*~~

Steve had planned on sleeping in a little on Saturday, but the insistent trill of the phone that he’d apparently forgotten to put on silent jolted him awake. He stared at Natasha’s name on the screen while he took a deep breath to try to calm his racing heart. “Hello?”

“Were you still asleep, Rogers?”

Steve sat up and started looking for his shirt. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m awake now.” He gave up on the shirt and just leaned back against the headboard. “What’s up?”

“You’re taking me to brunch. Business casual is fine. No jeans.”

Steve took the phone away from his head and just stared at it like doing that would make her words make more sense. It didn’t help as much as he’d hoped. “I--okay. I don’t really know a place that serves brunch, though.”

“Oh, I do,” Natasha said dismissively. “I’m sending a car. You should have enough time to get cleaned up and dressed if you get in the shower right...now.”

The line went dead, and Steve immediately threw his phone down in the tangle of his sheets and dove for the bathroom. He didn’t trust Natasha’s time estimate simply because sometimes she got a glint in her eye that told Steve she enjoyed making people jump on her command just because she could. Blackwater had really missed out on her, the thought as he finished in the bathroom and hustled back to his room to find something to wear.

Thirty minutes later, pressed, dressed, and in the back of a town car headed over the bridge and into Manhattan, Steve finally relaxed. He pulled out his phone and dashed off a quick selfie and a text to Tony.

> _ Good morning. _
> 
> _ I think blue’s my color. x _

Tony’s typing dots bounced on the screen for a few seconds before a reply came through.

> _ Holy shit _
> 
> _ warn a guy _
> 
> _ I about spit coffee all over my computer. x _

Steve laughed.

> _ No... _
> 
> _ More fun to just surprise you. x _

Tony's reply pinged in almost immediately.

> _ For you, maybe! _
> 
> _ I’m gonna be thinking about this all day now. x _

Steve smirked, knowing this would be his last response for a bit.

> _ As long as you’re thinking about me. xxx _

“We’re here, sir,” the driver said without turning around.

“Thanks.” Steve pocketed his phone as he got out of the car, forcing himself to ignore the persistent buzz of Tony’s incoming texts. He turned towards the restaurant but stopped when a hand slipped around his arm. 

“Buy a lady brunch?” Natasha smirked up at him from behind a chic pair of sunglasses.

“Hey, Natasha,” Steve said with an answering smile. “I think I could swing that.”

She pointed at the door with her free hand. “Then lead on, mister.”

Once they’d gotten seated and had a moment to order, Natasha pulled her notebook out of her purse and flipped it open. “We’ve got some stuff to talk about.”

Steve blushed. “I didn’t do it.”

“You sure about that?” she asked, glancing up from where she’d been turning pages.

He nodded and gave her his best ‘who me’ smile.

One corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk. “You better not be lying to me, Rogers.”

“I’m pretty sure you could kill me and leave no evidence, so no, I’m not going to risk lying to you.” Omitting all the details, he rationalized, wasn’t quite the same as lying.

She nodded down at the pages in front of her, clearly pleased at how she’d trained him. “I could.” 

The arrival of their food derailed any conversation for the moment, but Steve could feel Natasha’s eyes on him while he fiddled with getting his eggs cut and seasoned the way he wanted with a studiousness they didn’t quite deserve. 

“So what’s on your to-do list?” he finally asked after he’d swallowed his first bite.

“A few things. First of all, I’m proud of the way you’ve spent your signing bonus.”

Steve shrugged. “I paid the property taxes on the house, bought some tools for the bike, and banked the rest.”

Natasha nodded. “Exactly. Do you know how many players find themselves destitute when they leave this game? More than the NFL wants to admit, I can tell you that.”

“I’ve lived on a budget my whole life. Seems stupid to stop now.”

“Well, CNBC has heard and they’re impressed, so they want to know if they can interview you for a piece they’re doing on young athletes who are living their best financial life. It’d be you, Alvin Kamara, assuming he can tone down his language, and a couple either rookies or first year vets from other sports who’ve made similar decisions that show a basic level of intelligence.” 

Steve blinked. He didn’t think any budgeting advice he had to offer was terribly earth shattering. “I don’t--”

Natasha reached out and patted his arm. “You don’t have to do a full interview. I can draft up a statement that talks about your financial priorities, you can okay it, and I can send it to them.” She grinned. “I know talking to the media isn’t really your favorite.”

“It’s really not,” he agreed. He didn’t want to just shut her down though like he’d done during the Combine. He’d been so anxious that week and Mariucci’s special had felt like the raindrop that would make the dam well over. Now, though, he’d had a moment to find his footing, but he still didn’t think he could handle a whole interview over his bank account. It seemed...invasive. “I’d--I can do the statement thing.”

She nodded and made a note in her diary. “Easy. Done. They don’t need access to your whole life the way an interviewer would think they deserve anyway.” She flipped the page. “Okay. You know the CBA covers player’s images and likenesses, which includes sales of your jersey, right?”

Steve nodded. “They told us about that during the first week.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, but you’re leading rookie jersey pre-sales and you’re pretty high up among all jerseys for current players.”

“Seriously?” Steve boggled at that. “I haven’t even set foot on a field yet.”

Natasha shrugged. “Expectations are high, and based on everything coming out of the organization, you’re more than meeting them so far. People want jerseys for players they like and respect, and that’s you.”

And on it went. They worked their way through their food and Natasha’s to-do list, only disagreeing once over Steve appearing on the Rookie Spotlight in two weeks on NFL Network. Steve didn’t see the point, but Natasha put her foot down. Steve eventually conceded with poor grace, and Natasha just patted his hand and told him it would build character.

“Hey, is there room on your list for you to help me with something?” Steve eventually asked when they were down to just their coffee cups.

“Of course. It’s my job.”

“So Fury was talking in one of our meetings on Friday about getting involved with volunteer work.” 

Natasha nodded. “It’s pretty universal. Did you need help finding an organization to work with?”

Steve pushed his cup back and forth between his fingers slowly while he tried to formulate what, exactly, he wanted to tell Natasha. “I did some research last night, and--and I was thinking about reaching out to the You Can Play Project? It’s--”

“I’ve heard of it,” Natasha cut in, not unkindly. “For LGBT kids in sports.”

Steve nodded down at his hands. “Seemed...good.”

Natasha reached out and took one of his hands gently between hers. “I like you, so I’m gonna be honest with you…”

Steve nodded again even as his gut clenched. Wanting to work with an organization like that would show his hand a bit much before his job was secure. Still...

“Steve, listen to me, now.” Natasha tightened her grip on his hand and waited until he’d looked up and met her eyes. “You Can Play is a great organization. They do really good things…”

“But?” He winced at how snappish he sounded.

Natasha sighed. “ _ But _ , there is a...perception...that NFL athletes who are partnering with charities like those are trying to...atone...for something. Something they’ve said or something their team has said.”

Steve frowned. “But that’s not--I’m--”

Natasha nodded. “I know. I know. I’m just telling you what the optics are.”

Steve sat back and crossed his arms, suddenly ready to not be having this conversation. “What  _ would _ you suggest, then.”

“I’m not telling you to never work with them,” Natasha said, a note of steel creeping into her voice when she recognized the source of his irritation. “If this is something you feel strongly about, you can be the person who helps change that perception and makes working with LGBT organizations desirable rather than obligatory. But you need to establish yourself first.” She softened. “Walk before you run. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Okay.” Steve let his arms drop, resigned in the face of her logic. “Anyone you would suggest instead then?”

“Well, what are you interested in?” she asked, all business again. “Service projects in college that you liked? Causes you feel strongly about?”

Steve shrugged and dragged his thumbnail along the grain of the table. “We’d always do some service project kind of stuff a few times a year, but it’d change every year.”

“What about…” Natasha pulled a little address book out of her bag and started flipping through it. “What about the USO? There’s a lot of opportunities since they’re one of the league’s official partners.”

“I’m not…I don’t know if I’d be any good?”

Natasha shook her head. “Background like yours? Earnest face like that? You’d be a great fit.”

Steve frowned. “I don’t...what d’you mean by a background like mine?”

“Steve. You’re the son of a soldier who was killed in action.” She rolled her eyes when he scowled at that. “You wouldn’t have to tell people  _ exactly _ that. You can keep it vague. Hell, you can leave it at ‘I have a great deal of respect for our men and women in uniform and all their sacrifices.’”

“Let me think about it, okay?” Steve asked. 

“Sure. No rush. Well, not much of one.” She smiled at him. “I’ll email you the details for my contact at the USO, but I won’t mention you to her in case you don’t go that direction. If you settle on something else, just tell me because either I know someone or Abe does, so we can get you set up.” 

She consulted her list one more time. “Okay, last thing. Now that you’re settled with a team...don’t roll your eyes at me...they’re not going to waive you unless your arms fall off or you kill someone, I need to make sure the rest of your immediate circle’s doing okay. We’ve discussed family, your mom’s friends, that just leaves a girlfriend. Does she need anything to help adjust to this whole situation?”

Steve should have seen this one coming, really. Natasha was right; anyone involved with a rookie professional athlete would need almost as much help adjusting as he would. Although the one person he’d had one date with had been handling the media since before Steve was born, so any advice Natasha would have for him would probably come across as laughably quaint. “It’s--I’m single?”

“Why was that a question, Rogers?” Natasha asked, instantly on alert.

“I think the girl from Texas Pom who was nice enough to come with me to the football banquet this year was the last time I had a night out.” Prevarication thy name is Steven Rogers, Steve thought to himself bitterly.

Natasha glared at him. “That doesn’t answer  _ my question _ .”

“Kinda does, though,” Steve responded with a laugh. “You are definitely the kind of person who’d have sniffed out if I had a girlfriend, and not only would you have tracked her down, you’d have insinuated yourself into her life as her best friend so you could keep an eye on her.”

Natasha put her hand over her heart and smiled at him in an exaggerated display of being touched. “It’s like you know me.”

“C’mon, Romanoff,” Steve said laughing as he downed the last of his coffee. “I’ve been working with you since January. You aren’t the mystery you think you are.” 

He set his mug down and stood. “Now, we’ve held this table long enough, and I still gotta do the grocery run for this week, so let’s get out of here.”

Outside on the curb waiting on their respective cars, Natasha poked Steve in the ribs. “Please for the love of God tell me if you decide to do something like join Tinder.”

Steve wrinkled his nose at her. “I promise you not to join Tinder.”

Natasha nodded at him then stepped off the curb towards the sleek Stingray that the valet had brought around. “Good. Because the only wilder West than Twitter is Tinder.” She pointed over the roof of her car at him. “Be good, Rogers.”

“Sir?” The town car that had brought him into the city was back. “I was told you needed to stop for groceries on your way home?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, if you don’t mind?”

“No problem.” 

Back in the car, Steve finally checked his messages from Tony. 

> _ Something’s come up here, so I’m going to be an extra day or so. _
> 
> _ Which means no delightfully old fashioned date at the Peach Pit this weekend for us. _
> 
> _ But I can absolutely guarantee I’ll be thinking of you, Gunslinger. xxx _

Steve grinned as he typed out his reply.

> _ What was that I said last weekend? No rest for the wicked?  _
> 
> _ Seems I was right 😜 _
> 
> _ I thought the Peach Pit was a California thing? _
> 
> _ Glad you liked the blue. x _

Steve closed out of his texts and started making his list as they pulled away from the restaurant, when his email pinged with Natasha’s contact at the USO. Maybe she was right. The inherent safety of a conventional volunteer opportunity did sound appealing, but even as he clicked save on Margaret Carter’s contact information, he couldn’t shake the desire to do something that would let those ‘five sitting silent in any locker room’ his high school coach had mentioned every so often know they weren’t the only ones.

~~*~~

Sam was hanging around in the kitchen with Steve while he did meal prep on Sunday afternoon when voices in the front yard made them both pause mid-conversation and look towards the door.

“That sounds like Barnes and Dugan,” Steve guessed right before the doorbell went.

“I’ll go,” Sam offered.

Bucky and Dum Dum’s boisterous greetings echoed off the entryway walls, making Steve chuckle down into the containers he had open in front of him. 

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky said, throwing an arm around Steve’s shoulders when he made it back to the kitchen. 

“Hey, Bucky,” Steve replied. 

“Fitz asked me to say he’s sorry again he couldn’t make it this afternoon.”

Steve shook his head. “He doesn’t have to apologize. He’s at his uncle’s funeral, for God’s sake.”

“What’cha makin’?” Dum Dum asked, pinching one of the green beans out of the open bag on the counter.

Steve swatted his hand away. “Meal prep. I’m always stupid tired when I get home at night. This way I don’t have any excuse to blow the meal plan.”

“Smart,” Dugan mumbled around another green bean.

Sam raised his eyebrows between Steve and Bucky and Dum Dum. 

“Oh,” Steve said like he was just remembering something. “Did you guys carpool over here?”

“Gotta save the environment,” Bucky said with a nod.

“See!” Sam crowed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve waved him off. “You said Dr. Pepper?”

“Yep. A twelve pack. None of that stingy six pack of little ones nonsense.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Text me to remind me, or I’ll forget.”

“Oh, don’t think I won’t.” Sam looked unbearably smug.

Dum Dum clapped Sam on the shoulder. “You and me are gonna go get some fresh air and see who’s on first so you’re ready for full squad tomorrow.”

“Have fun!” Bucky hollered after them. Once the front door slammed behind them, Bucky turned on Steve. “You need help?”

Steve shook his head. “Just need lids now.”

“I’ll put lids on and you can put ‘em in the fridge,” Bucky said, shooing Steve over to the fridge.

When they’d finished in the kitchen, Bucky made a beeline back to the library. Steve trailed after him, wondering what he could possibly find so fascinating about that room when the setup he had in the front room was much more comfortable.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked as he came into the library and found Bucky examining his old pictures again.

“I can’t get over how  _ tiny _ you were,” Bucky said as he squinted at Steve’s freshman school picture again, like squinting was going to somehow clear up Bucky’s confused amazement.

“Yep. I was the runt for sure,” Steve rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be, oh I don’t know, giving me practical life advice or something?”

“I guess,” Bucky shrugged and put Steve’s picture back. “I was one of the rookies last year, so I don’t know if I’ve got any profound insight or anything.”

“How do I not end up on the practice squad?” Steve asked from the front room where he’d gone and collapsed on the couch.

Bucky followed him in and laid down on the floor next to the sofa. “Don’t fuck up?”

“Ha ha,” Steve deadpanned.

“I mean, I can tell you what I did?”

“Let’s start there,” Steve agreed with a real laugh.

Bucky raised his braced arm over his head and just stared at his hand where it sat suspended over his own face for a bit. “I made sure I came ready to work my ass off every day.”

“Given,” Steve murmured.

“I studied my playbook and my film.”

Steve curled down further on the couch, letting the sunlight coming in the front windows lull him into a soft stupor. “Sure.”

“I let the coaches  _ coach me _ , yaknow?” 

Steve smiled. “That can be the hardest one sometimes; egos get awful big.”

Bucky let his arm flop over against Steve’s knees. “And I made time for myself. Work life balance is a thing here too.”

Steve nodded against the throw pillow under his head. “That’s the one I’m afraid I’m gonna have trouble with. My ma always called me her worker bee. Always had to be doing something. For her, for the house, for my team. Never could figure out how to just have fun.” 

The easy silence of the front room carried them along for a few minutes before Steve jiggled his knee to get Bucky’s attention. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Sure. ‘S what I’m here for.”

“Who do you do community outreach stuff with?” Steve asked.

Bucky smiled. “A no-kill pet shelter in Bushwick. Got a cat from them right at the beginning of the regular season. Then I just kept coming around and making a nuisance of myself till they let me start helping out around the place. Now Alpine and I foster cats and I’ve roped the Howlies and a few other people on special teams into taking the dogs for a run in the park as the kickoff to this outdoor adoption event they have every month they can reasonably be outside. See a fit, shirtless dude and get his autograph, pet a dog, maybe take it home with you. The dog, not the fit, shirtless dude.”

Steve snorted. “That sounds fun.”

“Do something you enjoy,” Bucky advised. “Makes it much more fun for you because it's something you want to do. Plus then you get some kickass cleats for My Cause My Cleats weekend. I auctioned mine off for nearly two grand last season. Some fan got a pair of shoes my sweaty feet’d been in and the shelter got money they could really use.”

“That’s both gross and cool,” Steve said.

“Hey, people have weird taste in memorabilia, what can I say?” Bucky answered with a laugh. He thumped Steve’s leg again. “You can come do the July adoption thing with me if you want? It’s over the Fourth of July weekend, so you might be busy or whatever, but--”

“I’d love to,” Steve cut him off. “I’m not busy, and a run in the park with an adoptable dog sounds like a lot of fun.”

“Great!” Bucky grinned up at him. “It’ll be a good way to get your face out there too. Introduce you to some fans who can’t come to the public workouts for whatever reason.”

The sound of the doorbell forestalled any further conversation. 

“You make Sam ring the bell to get into his own house?” Bucky asked as Steve got up to go see who was there.

“No. Who do you take me for, Alyona Ivanovna?” Steve called back over his shoulder.

“If I knew who that was, I’d care way more,” Bucky hollered.

Steve rolled his eyes as he pulled the door open. A kid in a Postmates shirt was standing on the stoop, a plastic cup full of pink liquid topped with what looked like whipped cream in his hand. “Mr. Rogers?”

Steve nodded. “That’s me.”

The kid held the cup out. “This is for you.”

“I didn’t--what?”

The kid shrugged. “It was ordered for this address for Steve Rogers.”

“Okay, thanks.” Steve said, trying to keep his confusion out of his voice so this kid didn’t think he was somehow upset at  _ him _ . As he closed the door, he felt his phone go off in his back pocket. He pulled it out, and a text from Tony was waiting.

> _ It’s not *strictly* healthy, but you said strawberry shakes were your favorite in the interview the PR team posted. x _

Steve rolled his eyes. Trust Tony to remember he’d promised Steve a milkshake date  _ and _ to have read the bit in his interview where Sharon had gotten him to reveal strawberry shakes were his favorite off-diet indulgence.

> _ I can find room for the occasional splurge. Thank you. x _

He jammed the straw taped to the side into the cup, but before he could take that first sip, the writing on the side caught his eye.

> **Just in case no one has told you today:**
> 
> **\--Good Morning**
> 
> **\--I believe in you**
> 
> **\--You’re doing great**
> 
> **\--Nice butt**
> 
> **You Know Who I Am**

Steve shook his head. Wherever Tony had gotten this, they sure knew how to make a shake. The strawberry tasted real, and cut the creaminess of the ice cream with the perfect edge. “What’s a good letter jacket,” he mumbled to himself as he went in search of Bucky. Bucky, who was back in the front room, but just a bit out of breath and looking a little too casual for just having waited for Steve to come back. 

“You okay, there Buck?” he asked.

“Fine,” Bucky said smoothly. “What you got there?”

“Strawberry shake.” Steve took another sip of his shake. Between the burgers and this, he was probably never going to take restaurant advice from anyone apart from Tony. “Want my cherry?”

“That’s what she said.” Bucky shot back with a leer.

“Jesus, Bucky.” Steve rolled his eyes.

“Sorry. But also, yes. I love maraschino cherries.” He took the bright red, artificially sweet cherry from Steve with a grin. “You can bring your girlfriend to the dog run, if you want,” he offered around the fruit in his mouth.

Steve shook his head. “No girlfriend.”

“Really?” Bucky perked up. “You lookin’?”

“Not really.”

Bucky’s grin was practically feral. “‘Not really’ isn’t no.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Between you and Natasha, I’m going to get yenta’d to death…” he trailed off, struck by what Natasha had said yesterday about his jersey. 

“You work with Natasha Romanoff?” Bucky asked before he collapsed back against Steve and the couch, hand over his heart. “I would happily let her murder me.”

Steve shoved him away. “I’ll tell her you said so.”

“Oh, please do.” Bucky prayed.

Steve was blessedly spared from having to hear any more about his agent’s...datable...qualities thanks to Sam and Dugan coming back.

“Barnes, we gotta hit the road. Mary texted asking where I was.” Dum Dum said as he came into the front room. He pointed at where Bucky still lay in a swoon against the back of the couch. “What’d you do to him.”

Steve eyeballed Bucky. “He’s pining over my agent.”

“Romanoff?” he asked. Steve nodded. “She’d run roughshod over him in a heartbeat. He’d love it.”

“Aw, man,” Sam made a face. “There’s some things I just don’t need to hear.”

“Please tell me all about that,” Steve retorted. “It’s not like I have to work with her or anything.”

Dum Dum hauled Bucky up and clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go. Mary said she’s made enough for you to come have dinner with us.”

After they’d said their goodbyes and Bucky and Dum Dum had left, Sam turned to head upstairs. “That was great, but I gotta get myself ready for tomorrow. Have a good night, man.”

“You too,” Steve called up the stairs after him. 

Alone, Steve settled on the couch and clicked the TV on for a bit of background noise. He surfed around for a bit until he came across  _ The Great Escape _ on TCM. While Steve McQueen tunnelled under the German POW camp, Steve grabbed his laptop off the coffee table and started clicking around the Avengers’ online shop. Once he found what he was looking for, though, he realized the glaring flaw in his plan. 

> _ Hey, if I found myself in the city and wanted to come see you, what should I put into Google Maps? _

Like that wasn’t suspicious...or creepy. 

> _ I actually live at Stark Tower.  _
> 
> _ 200 Park Avenue.  _
> 
> _ Give me at least two hours notice to get you clearance for the private elevator. x _

Steve started typing in the shipping address field, but he stopped again when he got to apartment number. Even if Tony was the only permanent resident, Stark Tower probably handled a ton of mail every day. He stared at the half-completed address before he thought of a workaround. Delivering something to Tony’s day job might not actually be that weird at all. Decision made, he zipped through the billing information, and paused on the last box.

Is this a gift?

> I know it’s not exactly a letter jacket, but I hope you’ll think of me when you wear it.
> 
> Friday Night Lights

~~*~~

**Avengers Nation: Steve Rogers No. 5 in Jersey Sales**

It has been announced that Avengers rookie quarterback Steve Rogers is fifth in the NFL’s jersey sales. Rogers is the highest of all rookies in jersey sales. It has become utterly apparent that Avengers fans have already embraced their rookie quarterback who is also the heir apparent to the starting job under Ryan Fitzsimmons...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kind comments and kudos make my week. Seriously. Y'all are the best readers a gal could ask for. Please feel free to come shriek at me on tumblr too if you're so inclined (@longhornletters)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a whole lot to tell y'all this week...I'm sure that'll change next update when pre-season action starts
> 
> Thanks as always to the inimitable betheflame and kestrel337 for awesome beta and cheer help. I would not be nearly as entertaining without them.

**@jbbarnz**

Come out to Prospect Park Friday (7/3) from 9AM-3PM and meet the animals from Bark n’ Purr Pet Rescue. We’ll be having our regular Howlies Rundown at 9 to kick off. 

> Reply from **@BarkNPurr**
> 
> We’re so proud to partner with **@jbbarnz** in finding fur-ever homes for our animals. Come on down to Prospect Park and meet your new furry friend.

> Reply from **@BackfieldASSet**
> 
> Wish Barnes would rip me apart like he did the Serpents defense last season

> Reply from **@HowlinAllNight**
> 
> Will the Rundown be shirtless...please god 🙏

> Reply from **@BrooklynBabe**
> 
> Will there be cats and dogs for adoption?

> Reply from **@BarkNPurr**
> 
> **@BrooklynBabe** we’ll have both cats and dogs. Come meet a new friend!

~~*~~

Bucky’s text the night before the adoption event reminding him to wear Avengers workout gear also served to remind Steve that virtually everything he did had a public-facing element now. Still, he couldn’t help being a little excited about the fact that Bucky had invited him to help with something he clearly felt so strongly about.

When he got to Prospect Park on Friday morning, Bucky and Gabe both trotted over to greet him, dogs on leashes already with them. 

“You made it,” Bucky greeted him with a grin and a slap on the shoulder. “Let me introduce you to Angie and Dolores. They run the shelter.”

Dolores, it turned out, was a massive Avengers fan, or at the very least, a massive Bucky Barnes fan. After she’d enthused over Bucky’s tackle rate from last season and his ability to convince even the most skittish cats to socialize, she turned the force of her excitement onto Steve directly. “Everyone I know who’s an Avengers fan cannot wait until you get on the field. Thank you so much for coming to help with the Rundown. I set you up with Wylie because he’s a goer but he’s not wild.”

She led him over to a warren of pens that held dogs of all shapes and sizes, and steered him to a beautiful golden retriever that started wagging his tail excitedly at their approach. “Hey Wylie Coyote,” Dolores greeted him. She stepped over the barricade and he immediately came over to sniff at her knees, his whole hind end waggling with excitement. She clipped a sturdy rope leash to his collar before leading him out of his enclosure. “He’s not a jumper. The man who surrendered him was moving to a smaller place after his divorce and just didn’t have the room or the time.”

Steve knelt down to scruff his hands through the dog’s wavy fur. “He’s really well behaved.”

“Oh for sure,” she nodded. “He’s really well trained.”

Steve took the leash when she passed it over. “Dog this size is probably hard for a lot of people though.”

“You ready, pal?” Bucky asked before Dolores could answer.

Steve nodded. “I think so. We doing the mile and a half or the 5K loop?”

“Day this humid, we should probably just do a short one,” Gabe suggested.

“Plus if you only do that, they’ll have more time with potential families,” Dolores put in.

Bucky nodded. “Good point, Dot.” He turned to the rest of the players who’d been trickling in and getting set up with dogs of their own. “Howlies we ready?”

The twenty or so guys now assembled ready to run all let out a blood curdling howl, and at least half of the dogs joined in.

“Then let’s ride!”

Steve wrapped Wylie’s leash around his hand so it couldn’t slip out of his grasp while they ran, and Bucky grinned at him. “They’re gonna love this.”

They took off down the path, Wylie zigzagging along beside Steve as much as the slack Steve had left in the leash would allow. He and Bucky generally kept pace with each other, but thankfully Bucky wasn’t a talkative partner, so Steve could focus on his body and the road. As they ran, he caught a few people lounging on the grass raising cameras in his and Bucky’s direction out of the edge of his vision.

“They do that often?” he asked as they turned the corner to start running along the lake.

“Do what?” 

Steve nodded in the direction of a couple who’d started pedaling their swan shaped boat to get a better angle on them as they ran past.

Bucky jiggled his shoulders in a loose shrug. “Comes with the job,” he huffed. “Ya get used to it.”

They lapsed back into silence, except for the pounding of their shoes on the pavement, and Steve let Bucky’s words roll around his head. It made sense, Steve supposed, that face recognition would increase faster here, especially since the Avengers media team had done their introduction for the new players on social media. This was, he supposed, the moment his life truly stopped being his own. 

By the time they made it back to Bark n’ Purr’s setup, Wylie looked ready for a drink of water and a lie down, and Steve wasn’t in much better shape. He let Wylie back into his pen and accepted the water dish one of the volunteers handed him with a smile. While Wylie slurped noisily at his water, Steve let himself back out of the enclosure and went to relax on the grass under a tree nearby.

“You look like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet,” Bucky said as he flopped on the grass next to Steve and passed over a bottle of water. “Have fun?”

Steve grinned over at him. “I did. These people are doing good work. _You’re_ doing good work helping them.”

Bucky’s answering smile lit up his whole face. “Thanks, man. They knew just who I needed when I came looking for Alpine, so I’m glad I can help them too.”

They watched the volunteers buzzing around, helping families and couples and even a few individuals meet the animals for a while in easy silence until Bucky elbowed Steve gently in the arm. “You’re thinking too hard.”

“Am I?” Steve asked mildly.

“Mmhmm,” Bucky nodded. “Spit it out.”

Steve watched his fingers trail through the grass for a few seconds before he finally spoke. “I’m--Sam and I, we were going to grill out tomorrow for the Fourth...if you wanted to come?”

“Come to mine?” Bucky offered instead. “I don’t like to leave the cat alone on nights with fireworks, and I’ve already got some of the guys coming over for the same kinda grill and chill.”

“You sure?” Steve asked. 

Bucky pushed him, laughing when Steve rolled easily onto his back in the grass. “Of course I’m sure. Just bring whatever you were gonna make and we’ll add it to the spread.”

Steve nodded up at him. “Sounds good. You need us to bring anything else?”

“BYOB. I ain’t runnin’ down ten different kinds’a suds for you punks.” He slid his sunglasses back on and stood up. “I better get back. Part of the draw is that the Avengers star cornerback might help you adopt your dog.”

“I’d adopt a dog from you,” Steve said from where he was still laying on the grass, completely unmotivated to even sit up.

Bucky held his arms out and started walking backwards away from Steve. “Who wouldn’t.”

“Find all those dogs good homes,” Steve called after Bucky who just laughed and waved. 

Steve flopped back on the grass again and let his eyes slip closed as the stultifying heat slowed him to a gradual stop. The sunlight flared red behind his closed eyes and the bit of breeze kept him from melting into the ground. He could have happily slipped into a light doze there in the grass, but his phone buzzing against his leg had Steve wriggling it out of the pocket of his compression shorts, and he cracked one eye open so he could hit the answer button. “‘Lo?”

“Hey, Gunslinger, what’s the good word?”

Steve grinned lazily up at the branches over his head. “Nothing, really. Just laying under a tree in the park after a run.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re the perfect all-American throwback? I feel like someone should follow you around whistling the Andy Griffith theme song.” 

Steve laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever been fishing in my life. Too much city in me.”

Tony took a deep breath. “So, I was calling because I _happened_ to find myself in your area and I wanted to see if I could come pick you up so we could go over to mine and watch a movie?” 

Steve rolled to sit up. “I’m, um, I’m not sure--”

“Steve, Steve,” Tony’s laughter filtered over the line. “Don’t worry, this isn’t some sordid proposition.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” Steve felt his face heat and he grimaced at himself. Well, it _hadn’t_ been that. “It’s more that...well, I’m kinda gross.”

The line went dead in his ear right before Tony himself appeared right next to Steve. “Hey there, Sporty Spice.” He squatted down then leaned over and rested his cheek on Steve’s shoulder and breathed him in. “Yeah, you do smell like outside.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I coulda told you that.” He settled back against the tree, watching with a smirk at Tony trying so hard to look at ease sitting on the grass. “So what’s the plan? You mentioned a movie, but I’m gonna need to eat too at some point and I should probably get cleaned up before you let me sit on any of your fancy furniture.”

“Your life just revolves around food, doesn’t it?” Tony asked with a laugh.

Steve shrugged. “Gotta feed the body. It’s in the job description.”

“Well, you’re doing it right, that’s for sure.” Tony winked. “So how about this? We can swing by yours so you can get cleaned up, then we’ll go to mine and I’ll feed and entertain you.”

Steve stood up and dusted his shorts off then reached out a hand to help Tony to his feet. “Just let me say bye to Bucky then yeah.” He smiled softly at Tony. “It’s a date.”

Tony fairly glowed as he turned and trotted back over to the, now significantly emptier, pens and called, “Bucky!”

“You gonna head out?” Bucky asked from where he was leaning over to scratch behind the ears of a dachshund whose card identified him as Nathan.

“Yeah. Go get cleaned up and...y’know…” he trailed off with a shrug. “Thanks for letting me come today. This was a lot of fun.”

Bucky squinted up at him with a smile. “Of course. Hey, come over anytime after 11 tomorrow. We’re gonna fire up the grill kinda early so folks with kids’ll have time to eat and play and still get home at a decent hour.”

Steve nodded. “Sounds good. Let us know if you need us to bring anything apart from meat and beer.”

“Sure.” Bucky jostled Steve’s shoulder. “Get out of here. Enjoy your afternoon.”

With a quick wave, Steve turned back to where he’d left Tony, texting Sam that he was going out for the afternoon and about their change in Fourth of July plans as he went. He could feel Bucky’s eyes on him as he walked away, but once he hit send on his text to Sam, he turned his phone on do not disturb. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Ready?” Tony looped his arm around Steve’s with a wink and a smile.

Steve nodded, still trying to ignore the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck. “Lay on, Macduff.”

Back at the house, Steve slugged down the protein shake he’d left in the fridge then pelted up the stairs for the shower tossing a “make yourself at home” over his shoulder. He rushed through a quick shower, but drew up short over the prospect of getting dressed again. What, he wondered, did one wear to a second date that might actually be a decoy for Netflix and chill. And a second date that he might not actually mind if it turned out to involve a little and chill. 

“God, just dress yourself,” he muttered as he grabbed the pair of jeans he’d left flung over the back of a chair and fished a grey t-shirt out of a drawer.

“Your birthday’s tomorrow?” Tony asked when Steve came back downstairs. He pointed at the card the neonatal team had sent. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” He reached out and flicked the edge of the card they’d found that poked fun at his refusal to engage with social media. 

“I should probably warn you now, I’m terrible with stuff like birthdays and anniversaries and all that...” he waved his hand, “relationshippy kind of stuff.” 

Steve shrugged. “Guess it’s a good thing I’ve never really been a big birthday kinda guy.” 

He reached out and slipped his hand into Tony’s, smiling when Tony’s face lit up. It was, he realized, the first time he’d reached out for Tony instead of the other way around. “All that relationship stuff comes when you’ve got the right person. They see you. You see them.” 

Tony glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “You think it’s that easy?”

“I never said it was _easy_ ,” Steve objected. “Just that…” he groped back for the words his mom had used. “It’s--You _want_ to figure out ways to make it work.”

Tony squeezed his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

Steve nodded. 

Outside, Tony’s Ferrari crouched at the curb, and Steve trailed his fingers gently over the glossy red paint. “Could you have picked a showier car?” he asked with a smile to soften the words.

“Sure.” Tony smiled back and slipped his sunglasses on. “I could have brought the Saleen. That thing’s a hand-built one-off.”

“Jesus. Might as well have flown us into town in the Iron Man suit if that’s the alternative,” Steve teased as he slid into the passenger seat.

“Less traffic that way,” Tony agreed and gunned the engine.

~~*~~

“So how do you feel about Italian food?” Tony asked on their ride up the elevator.

Steve shrugged. “One of mom’s coworkers makes really good cannelloni.”

“So…”

“I like it.” Steve laughed. 

When they stepped off the elevator, Tony shooed Steve towards the gentle curve of the living room windows as he pulled his phone out. “Go, explore.” He grabbed Steve’s elbow before he could wander too far. “Any allergies?”

Steve shook his head.

Once Tony put the phone back to his ear, Steve turned back to the windows. The view of Manhattan from this high up was exquisite, and once he figured out which pane of glass was also the door, he slipped outside onto the balcony that appeared to double as a landing pad for Iron Man. He itched for a pencil, but settled for promising himself that the view would be just as good next time. 

“Since I saw you drink that shake, I’m assuming dinner is fine?” Tony’s voice came from behind him.

Steve turned around and nodded. “I’m good for a while.” Tony slithered up under his arm, making Steve smile down at him. “You built all this?” he asked.

“Refurbished all this,” Tony said with a dismissive wave. 

Steve pointed at the round landing pad. “Is that…”

Tony grinned and winked. “That’s more of a third date kind of question.”

Steve grinned back. “Fair. Just because the world knows you’re Iron Man, you can’t give away all your secrets, I guess.”

“Nope.” He stepped back and grabbed Steve’s hands. “Come on, let me show you my fancy bachelor pad.”

Steve laughed and let himself be pulled back towards the penthouse. “This isn’t your smoothest move.”

“Ah, but it is smooth,” Tony retorted with a glint in his eyes.

“About as smooth as inviting yourself over to my house the weekend I moved in.” Steve grinned.

Back inside, Tony gestured back the way they had come in. “You saw that half.”

Steve rolled his eyes.

“Well, the parts that are pre-third date, anyway.” He pointed at the partial wall. “The kitchen hides back there. I think.”

Steve laughed. “You think?”

“Steve, I am a genius in multiple fields, but cooking is absolutely not one of them.” He slid an arm around Steve’s waist and pointed with his free hand off down the other hall. “Guest rooms.”

Steve draped his arm over Tony’s shoulders so they were holding each other. “I gotta say, this is the most half-assed tour I’ve ever been on.”

“That’s just because I’m saving the best for last,” Tony said smoothly. “Well, the best for today.”

“Oh, okay.” Steve nodded with exaggerated understanding. “And what would that be?”

“Media room.”

Steve chuckled. “The media room?”

“Sure. I did promise you dinner and a movie. I just didn’t say what order they’d happen.” Tony steered Steve into a surprisingly cozy room and pushed him down onto the couch. Steve went willingly and let the springs of the couch bounce him gently when he landed. “How do you feel about horror?”

“I don’t like gore porn,” Steve said, making a face. “ _Saw_ and _Hostel_ and stuff like that.”

“Ew, no.” Tony agreed. “I don’t...I don’t do any kind of body horror. I was thinking more of something classic like Hitchcock or _Wait Until Dark_. Suspense kind of horror.”

“I’ve never seen _Wait Until Dark_ ,” Steve offered.

Tony grinned. “It’s aged pretty well, I think.” He turned back to the TV setup to fiddle with the player. 

Steve watched him push buttons, slide the disc into the player, but his eyes were drawn down to Tony’s bare feet. He was tapping them softly against the floor while he hummed “Sharp Dressed Man” under his breath. “You mind if I take my shoes off?” he asked.

Tony shook his head without turning around. “Of course not. Make yourself comfortable.”

Steve tugged his shoes off and lined them up along the outside of the couch right as Tony flopped down next to him and the opening credits started to roll. Tony pulled his knees up to his chest and wiggled further down into both the couch and Steve. 

“You okay?” Steve murmured.

Tony nodded. “Just...anticipation of what’s coming.”

Steve threw his arm across the back of the couch in silent invitation, and Tony scooted closer.

“Assholes,” Steve muttered at the screen when the three con artists started trying to trick Susy into thinking they were different people.

Tony snorted and leaned in a bit closer. “She can take ‘em. She’s got snap.”

Steve hummed. “Little like someone else I know.”

“Really? Do tell,” Tony finally angled all the way in and laid his head against Steve’s shoulder, batting his eyelashes up at Steve.

Steve reached over with his other hand and poked Tony in the ribs. “Don’t fish,” he scolded fondly.

“I would never!” Tony objected with a laugh. 

“Yes you would,” Steve murmured against Tony’s temple before he dropped a kiss on the same spot.

“Okay I absolutely would,” Tony agreed then leaned in and kissed Steve slow and soft.

Steve tugged Tony in tighter and kissed him again, deepening the kiss when Tony sagged boneless against his side. Tony’s hands crept up and around the back of Steve’s neck until he could drag his fingers slowly through the super short hair at the base of his skull, making Steve sigh lazily against Tony’s lips.

Onscreen, Audrey Hepburn started smashing light bulbs, but Steve didn’t notice as Tony pushed him back until he was laying on the couch, Tony snugged up between his knees. “This okay?” he mumbled against Steve’s lips.

Steve jerked his head in a small nod. “Yeah, but I--”

Tony silenced him with a quick, sharp kiss. “Nothing below the belt, All American. Promise.”

Steve rolled his eyes even as he moved to kiss Tony again. “Necking in the movies?”

“Something like that,” Tony gasped, a little breathless, before he bent to run his lips and tongue along Steve’s neck.

Steve shuddered and arched into the feel of Tony’s mouth as he ran his hands down Tony’s sides. “Jesus that’s…”

“Ringing endorsement,” Tony murmured against the base of his throat before he swooped back up to kiss Steve again. He took advantage of the way Steve’s spine curved towards him to wrap his arms around Steve and squeeze him closer.

Steve slid his hands around Tony’s waist and slipped his fingers under Tony’s shirt to caress the bare skin at the small of his back as they kept kissing. 

They didn’t stop trading kisses until the lights raised just enough to become intrusive when the closing credits started. Tony dropped his head against Steve’s shoulder and took a deep breath. “That was…”

“Mmm, yeah,” Steve murmured, still feeling deliciously slow and content where they were laying on the couch. “I’ve never made out in the movies.”

Tony laid his head on Steve’s chest. “Was it everything you thought it would be?”

“Definitely.” Steve squeezed his arms around Tony’s waist. “I’m gonna have to rewatch it on my own to find out how it ends, though.”

Tony burst out laughing, then kissed Steve again. “Or I could just tell you.”

“Excuse me Sir, but Ryan from Dominick’s is requesting delivery access.”

Steve jolted at the sound of the cultured and detached voice coming from...well...everywhere, he supposed.

“Thanks J. Send him up.” Tony sat up, still straddling Steve’s legs. “Dinner’s here. Let me go grab it.” He got up, but turned back at the door. “Don’t freak out on me, okay?”

Steve nodded. “Promise.” 

Once Tony was gone, Steve sighed. This had been nice. More than, really, but he couldn’t just play around and just...ignore the consequences. Sharon and Natasha’s warnings about avoiding off-field drama reared up and blocked out everything else. He rolled over until he was face down on the couch and groaned into the cushions. Hooking up with a man, the man who owned his team no less, would definitely complicate his on-field life.

“You promised not to freak out,” Tony’s voice said from over his head.

Steve peeked up from where he’d hidden his face in the couch. “Not freaking out.”

Tony smacked Steve’s thigh. “Come eat and tell me what you _are_ doing if it’s not freaking out.” 

Steve stood to follow, leaving his shoes behind in their spot next to the couch. “You can do this,” he muttered.

In the kitchen, Tony had laid their dinner out on the breakfast bar. “You don’t mind eating out of the containers, right?”

Steve shook his head as he moved to the sink to wash his hands. “I’m not fancy.”

“That’s part of why I like you,” Tony replied.

“Only part?” Steve teased as he slid onto the chair next to Tony. Tony pushed a container of cannelloni towards him, and he took a bite then groaned aloud. “You can _never_ tell Mrs. Da Marco I’ve eaten this and reacted this way.”

“That good, huh,” Tony said around a bite of what looked like pink pasta. He let Steve take a couple more bites before he tapped the back of Steve’s wrist with the handle of his fork. “So talk to me.”

Steve dragged his fork through the sauce in his container, trying to get his thoughts together. How could he explain just how precarious his position was to a man who didn’t seem like he’d ever worried about that sort of thing a day in his life. “I’m…” he sighed. “It has been impressed on me that I need to be careful about how I behave off the field.”

Tony nodded. “I helped Pepper and Hill develop the morality clauses in your contract. We want our team to be something the fans can be proud of.” He twirled some more pasta around his fork. “But you haven’t violated any of them.”

“It’s more the unspoken rules I’m worried about,” Steve admitted. 

“Which ones?” Tony pressed. 

“Hooking up with someone who’s a man. Who’s older. And my boss.” He smiled sadly at Tony. “Take your pick.”

“Can my answer to all three be ‘it’s nobody’s business but ours?’” Tony asked. 

Steve shook his head. “Not if ESPN gets hold of it.”

Tony set his fork down and turned to fully face Steve. “Okay. First off, I’m not sure I appreciate ‘hooking up with’; makes us both sound a little unnecessarily slutty.”

“Well what would you call it?” Steve asked, trying not to laugh. Trust Tony to have picked out the one part of his words that the average joe would probably find the least objectionable. Well, at least until it got paired with all the rest.

“Dating? Or the start of it at least.”

Steve could feel heat creeping up his face. “You--we’re dating?”

“I’d _like_ to be,” Tony retorted smartly. He glanced sideways at Steve. “Look, there’s a reason I didn’t try to lure you into bed right after the Draft. Or either time I came over to your place. And why I don’t plan on trying to tonight.” 

He took a deep breath, and Steve could see the resolve harden in Tony’s eyes. “I like you. I want to spend time with you. I _know_ I’ve already told you both those things. I would eventually like to spend time with you with no clothes on too, but, well, I’m _trying_ to be an adult. And if ESPN sticks their nose where it quite clearly doesn’t belong, I want to work through that together too.”

Steve nodded, a slow smile creeping across his face. “That sounds...really nice. I want to do all that with you too.” He took a breath. No time like the present for honesty. “I know all the...implications of a third date, but I’m...I don’t know if I’d be ready--”

“Hey, whoa, no,” Tony cut him off. “No expectations here. I was just teasing you about the third date, but no. We’re in this together, so we’ll do things when we’re _both_ ready. Okay?”

“Okay,” Steve agreed, his shoulders unknotting. 

“Okay.” 

He stared at Steve for another second then closed the lid on his dinner and got up to stash it in the fridge. He came back with a smaller container with a pair of cannoli in it. He waggled the box at Steve. “Happy early birthday.”

Steve opened the box then pushed it so it was sitting between them. “Share with me?”

“Only if you tell me why the hell you’re using your pasta fork to eat dessert,” Tony said as he used a spoon to break off a bite of one cannoli. 

“You need a little something to cut the sweet,” he said with a smirk.

Tony made a face. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Can I tell you something?” Steve asked a couple bites later, his eyes fixed on the half finished cannoli between them.

“Sure,” Tony said.

“I’m not…” he sighed and frowned as he felt himself blushing furiously. “This is gonna sound crass, but...I don’t like you for your money.”

“O...kay?” Tony rested his spoon on the edge of the container. “I feel like there’s some more here that I’m missing.”

Steve set down his fork and clasped his hands on the bartop. “One of my receivers at Texas...his guilty pleasure TV show was _90 Day_ _Fiancé_. And, I mean, I don’t know if you’ve ever watched it…?”

Tony shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”

“You’re not missing much,” Steve said with a wan smile. “So anyway, there’s usually a noticeable income gap in at least one couple, and I know, I _know_ , they edit these kinds of shows for drama and interpersonal conflict, but you can’t blame everything on editing.”

“And you’re worried about how you’ll come out in the editing if this,” Tony gestured between them, “becomes public.”

Steve nodded down at his still-clenched hands. “And I...I know who I am and what I want, but...” he looked up at Tony, his eyes begging him to hear him. “I want you to know it too. From me. Not someone else.”

Tony slipped his hand over Steve’s and squeezed. “Do you know how long I’ve lived in the public eye?”

Steve shook his head. “Not really.”

“I was three when _People_ published candid pictures of my parents and me on vacation and called me the most photogenic toddler of the year. My first televised interview was with Carson when I was ten. Because my dad’s newest missile wasn’t as interesting as his smartass kid who was about to start high school. _Esquire_ interviewed me for five fucking hours when I was in college because they wanted to know how I was balancing completing an advanced degree with what was, admittedly, only the start of a rather spectacular public indecency streak...no pun intended.” 

“So…?”

“So,” Tony laughed. “I know--intimately--what editing does to people. To what they say and mean and what people end up hearing and thinking. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but I am saying I know better than to just--just believe what someone who’s not directly involved with my life is saying about my life.” 

He leaned in and slid an arm around the back of Steve’s chair. “Tell me something unedited,” he murmured.

“I think there’s unpolished intimacy in bare feet,” Steve said softly then smiled when Tony curled his bare toes around the crossbar on his chair. “Tell me something unedited?” 

“Sharing your favorite music gives another person the truest picture of yourself,” Tony offered. 

“Give me something to listen to on my ride home, then,” Steve said, then passed Tony his phone, Spotify open on the screen.

Tony grinned. “I know just the thing.” When Steve tried to lean over and peek, he clutched Steve’s phone to his chest and shooed him off his chair with a small flick of his fingers. “Go get your shoes. I want this to be a surprise.”

In the media room, Steve grabbed his shoes and tugged them on, but he didn’t immediately stand back up to go. He ran his hand over the couch cushions where, a couple hours ago, he’d been flat on his back making out with Tony Stark like they were teenagers. Surprisingly, none of the worry or shame that had inevitably followed his infrequent, usually alcohol-fueled, hookups in high school and college crept up on him here. He felt...quiet. 

A conversation he’d had with his mom when she’d come home for the last time jumped into his head. She’d been sitting in the front room, rail thin and wearing a sweater even as the June heat crept through the windows and made Steve sweat. He’d sat with her on the couch and let her rest her head on his shoulder while he did some reading for summer school, and when she hadn’t been looking at him, he’d finally worked up the nerve to say the one thing he knew he’d regret hiding from her. 

“Ma,” he’d said softly, just in case she was dozing. “Ma, I’m--”

She’d patted his hand, and he’d fallen silent. “I know, love.” She’d laughed at his shocked expression then said, “you realize your generation didn’t invent bisexuality, right?”

He’d nodded dumbly at her, and she’d just laughed some more. He’d wanted, so badly, in that moment to give shape to the nebulous anxiety that swirled around the intersection that seemed to exist where his personal life met his public life, but before he could, his mom had just hugged his arm a bit harder then resettled herself. “The right person will help you find the right balance.”

She was right. Bucky was right too, even if he didn’t realize _why_ he was right. “Work life balance is a thing here too,” he murmured as he stood.

“I was about to send out a search party,” Tony teased when Steve made it back out to the lounge.

Steve offered him a small smile. “Just...reminding myself I deserve to want things. That I don’t belong solely to my job.”

“That’s very true,” Tony nodded. He sidled up under Steve’s arm again as they made their way slowly towards the elevator. “I don’t belong to my company and my name’s on the damn door, so you should certainly have more leeway.”

While they waited on the elevator, Tony tangled his fingers with Steve’s. “You’re sure I can’t convince you to let me call you a car?”

Steve shook his head. “It’s late. I have a MetroCard for a reason.”

“Well, be careful. And text me when you get home,” Tony insisted over the soft rush of the elevator coming closer.

“I can do both those things,” Steve agreed easily. 

He leaned down just that little bit and kissed Tony, letting himself linger and enjoy the way Tony tended to smile when Steve would kiss him. When the elevator doors opened with a soft ding, Steve pulled back and licked his lips, chasing the last hint of their kiss. “Have a good night.”

Tony blinked, a bit dazed, as his eyes tracked Steve’s tongue. “Yeah--I--you too.” 

In the elevator, Steve collapsed against the back wall of the car with a sigh and closed his eyes. “I think I know what you meant, ma,” he murmured to himself. 

Out on the street, the night was still muggy, and Steve made a face as the warm, humid air bogged him down after the crisp coolness of the Tower’s air conditioning. He hustled down to Grand Central and about fainted when he got down onto the platform right as his train pulled in. He settled himself in one of the rear-facing seats, still just as enchanted at 24 with the feeling of riding backwards as he had been at 6, and pulled out his phone and headphones. He pressed play on the album Tony had picked and let the oddly soothing tracks of Imperial Bedroom and the rhythm of the 4 train carry him back to Brooklyn.

~~*~~

Steve jolted sharply awake the next morning when all 200 pounds of Sam Wilson flopped on top of him in his bed where he’d still been facedown and dead to the world.

“Happy birthday, dude,” he crowed as soon as Steve peeled an eye open.

“Is there a reason you’re trying to crush me?” Steve swatted an arm back at him, but Sam refused to budge.

Sam rolled over so he was laying back to back on top of Steve. “So how weird is it that you’re like exactly 200 years younger than the whole ass country?”

He finally succeeded in dislodging Sam from his back by doing a full out pushup, laughing as Sam fell on the bed with a startled squawk. “I’m 219 years younger than the country, thanks.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “So is that something people born on the Fourth of July just _know_?”

“Yeah. It’s built into my genes. Like having double jointed elbows.”

“You have double jointed elbows?” Sam asked then immediately grimaced as Steve started shaking out his arms. “Ugh! No! Don’t _show_ me! Jesus.”

“Not to be That Guy, but why are you in here assaulting me to wake me up? And on my birthday no less.”

“Bucky texted _me_ ,” Sam leveled a glare that would peel paint at Steve, “because _your ass_ has been on do not disturb since yesterday afternoon. He asked if I knew what your deal was and if we’d bring a couple bags of ice.”

“When do you wanna head over there?” Steve asked, deliberately ignoring the first question.

Sam shrugged. “Whenever.”

“Let me get cleaned up then we can grab ice at the bodega on our way.”

Sam clambered off Steve’s bed. “I need to shower too. You need to turn your phone back on like the big boy I know you are.”

Steve flapped a hand at him, and Sam rolled his eyes before disappearing back upstairs. A quick smell and wrinkle check and Steve decided he could just re-wear his clothes from last night’s date. Instead of immediately heading to get ready, though, he sank down on the edge of his bed and stared at his phone. The red 5 on his text app glared up at him. He knew he’d have to face Bucky eventually, in person if not over the phone, so a flick and a tap later, and now anyone could get through to him again. He scrolled past the string of messages Bucky had sent him yesterday afternoon and evening and jumped straight into the avenue of conversation least likely to involve yesterday at the park.

> _Is two bags of ice enough?_

He set his phone on the tiny shelf over the sink, got in the tub and yanked the shower curtain closed, hiding from the damn thing

“Is this a swimsuit kinda party?” Sam called down suspiciously quickly after Steve shut off the shower.

He leaned out the bathroom door to holler back up the stairs. “Were you waiting for the second the water shut off?”

“Swimsuit, man, yes or no?”

“You apparently have Bucky’s number, so why don’t you ask,” Steve muttered, ducking back into the bathroom to finish getting ready, but not before he mutinously sent Sam’s question anyway.

> _Two’s plenty._
> 
> _I don’t have a pool, so no._

“No pool,” Steve called up the stairs.

By the time Steve made it downstairs, Sam had already packed their meat, the potato salad he’d made from his mom’s secret recipe, and their beer into a cooler. “I think we can fit two bags of ice on top of this,” he said pointing at the empty space on top of their food.

Steve eyeballed the cooler then shrugged. “Should. If not, we can just take the beer out. We’re not going that far” He slammed the lid down on the cooler and together they hefted it between them.

“Let’s go grill and chill.”

A stop for ice, a nearly disastrous turn the wrong way down a one-way street when Sam had refused to listen to either Waze or Steve, and an almost-fight over a parking spot later, they were hefting their contribution to Bucky’s party up his front steps. Before they could even knock, though, the door flung open and a compact man with sandy blonde hair was grinning maniacally at them. 

“Clint. Barton. I don’t think we’ve officially met yet,” he said as he stuck out his hand to Steve.

“Steve Rogers. You’re special teams, right?”

“Hell yeah,” he said as he waved them into the house. “Place kicker extraordinaire. Haven’t missed in two full seasons. I broke Vinatieri’s record in Week 13 this past season.”

“Bucky, your baby quarterback’s here,” he yelled back towards the back yard. He pointed towards the kitchen. “Food in the fridge. We’re just pulling shi--stuff out as we need it. Beer and ice in the backyard. Don’t swear around the kids or Mary Dugan’ll kick your ass.”

“I’ll do what now?” A woman with short curly hair asked as she came in off the back patio.

“I’m gonna go...do...stuff,” Clint slithered past her and out to the relative safety of his teammates.

Steve and Sam shoved the food they’d brought into the already stuffed fridge then Steve hauled the cooler out back himself when Hopkins grabbed Sam by the shoulders and introduced him to his mother.

“Hey, _stranger_ ,” Bucky said from where he was laying in a sun lounger nursing a beer and occasionally peeking up over the edge of the grill that Falsworth was manning.

“Hey,” Steve replied, pointedly ignoring Bucky’s emphasis. “Where do you want ice and drinks?”

“Coolers are under the patio,” Fitz jumped in. Someone had put peel and stick letters on the three coolers Fitz pointed out that said BEER, SODA, and WATER, respectively. “I don’t think we’ll need the ice yet. I’m about to go back in to try to find my teenage child who seems to live on Fortnite these days, so I can take it.”

“Thanks.” 

Fitz slapped Steve on the shoulder and took the cooler and vanished back into the house.

“Come, sit, have a drink.” Bucky motioned Steve over and pointed at the hammock chair next to his lounger.

Steve forced himself to sink into the hammock chair Bucky pointed out to him and accept the Stroh’s Bucky passed over. 

“Did’ya have a good afternoon yesterday?” Bucky asked deceptively idly.

Steve licked his lips and reminded himself that it was just an urban legend that saliva from kissing didn’t actually stay in your mouth for two weeks. “Yeah…”

Bucky nodded. “Good.”

When Bucky didn’t say anything else, Steve sat back and forced himself to relax as he watched the pack of players’ kids running around the back yard. The eight or so who looked elementary aged were playing freeze tag, and one of the boys looked like he’d made it his mission to knock as many kids off their feet as he could when he crawled under their legs to unfreeze them. 

Scott came in carrying his daughter Cassie, and as soon as he set her on her feet in the grass, she toddled over and crawled up on Bucky’s lounger to examine his cat, who was curled up in his lap in spite of the heat. 

“Cat,” she said proudly and pointed at Alpine from her spot between Bucky’s shins.

“Lazy cat,” Bucky agreed. Alpine let out a tiny _mrrp_ from her spot without actually opening her eyes.

Eventually Monty deputized Morita to start encouraging people to go get food off the long tables set up against the fence “before it all goes to shit” and tiny Cassie parroted “shit” to Bucky and Scott’s delight and Scott’s girlfriend Maggie’s chagrin. Steve stood and offered to go get Bucky a plate on the condition that Bucky protect his chair from seat thieves.

By the time he made it back, Cassie had been bundled off for lunch and a nap and Clint had pulled a chair over to their spot for himself. He grinned up at Steve from where he was balancing his plate on his knees while trying to get all his condiments situated on his bun. Alpine took offense to a plate replacing her, and she jumped down from Bucky’s lap.

“How’re you liking us?” Clint asked as Steve curled back up in his chair.

“It’s been really great,” Steve said with a small smile. “I’m really getting excited for preseason now.”

“God preseason is the worst,” Bucky jumped in. “I think the only time the tackling is more hands-off is the fu--freakin’ Pro Bowl.”

“Says you,” Clint retorted. “I just get to pound field goals and PATs and nobody’s really trying to block anything yet.”

“Except that random undrafted free agent who’s trying to avoid practice squad or waivers,” Bucky pointed out. He leaned back and grinned at Steve. “You’ll have a front row seat to all this since you’ll probably get to play most of the games. Fitzy’ll do a series or two, get the cobwebs loose, then Fury’ll stick you in. He might bring you out to let Bradley run a series if we’re way up or way down.”

“Why d’you think he’s gonna be the 40-point player and not me?” Steve asked around a bite of Sam’s potato salad.

“I got outta my special teams meeting early on Wednesday, and I heard Fury talking to the offensive coordinator on my way to media,” Clint put in. “They both think you’ve got a steadier hand and a cooler head, so they were saying you’d be Fitz’s number two and Bradley’d go back to the practice squad.”

Sam reached out and smacked Steve’s leg when he stood to get rid of his trash. “This is exactly what I’ve been telling you. You’re good. Everyone else’s figuring that out too.”

Steve swallowed the last bite of his burger and licked a dab of mustard off his thumb. “I think that random undrafted free agent is what I’m most...not worried about, but…”

“Conscious of?” Sam offered as he came back and parked on the foot of Bucky’s lounger.

Steve nodded. “That. Kinda leery of some JJ Watt wannabe trying to do something flashy to make a highlight reel and getting someone hurt.”

“We’ve got a strong O-line,” Clint offered. 

“Especially now that Thor’s here,” Bucky agreed.

“Exactly,” Clint agreed. “They’ll take care of you.”

A little girl no more than eight appeared at Clint’s elbow. “Dad? Mom wants to know where Nate’s diaper bag is.”

“Guest bedroom,” Clint answered, and she scurried off.

“Plus, there’s more of an expectation of stand-up behavior here than in college,” Fitz had followed Clint’s daughter over and taken up a spot leaning against the back of Clint’s chair. “You’re all out there to get paid. Unless you’re a raging bag of dicks--”

“Ryan!” Fitz’s wife hollered from the kitchen out the open patio door

“Sorry Liz,” He called back. “Unless you’re... _that_ kind of player, everyone on the field knows this is your livelihood, so they don’t tend to go for blood.”

“Cause it’s their livelihood too,” Bucky finished. “It’s a gentleman’s agreement kinda thing.”

“Mr. Barnes?” One of the little girls who’d been playing freeze tag before lunch was standing at the edge of their group with a trail of other kids behind her.

“Yes, Miss Alice?” Bucky raised his eyebrows at her. 

“Can we use your footballs to play?”

He nodded. “Of course.” He glanced back at the kids straggling behind her. “You know my rules?”

“Don’t scare the cat, don’t break a window, don’t gouge up the lawn,” she listed on her fingers.

“Got ‘em all.” He said getting up from his lounger. “I’ll go grab you those balls.” 

It didn’t take long for Bucky to return, a massive duffel bag thrown over his shoulder. He set it down and unzipped the top to reveal six footballs standing neatly on their points inside. Alice grabbed one out, and a few other kids darted forward to grab balls out of the bag too. 

As the kids ran off to play, the rest of the adults started to filter back out of the house to enjoy the late afternoon sun. Scott and Maggie came out to claim the bench next to the coolers, rocking slowly with a sleeping Cassie in her arms, and Clint’s wife Laura came to sit next to Clint with their baby who was also sacked out asleep. Hopkins had claimed a seat under the patio with his mom, and Steve watched him lean in to describe what was happening to her. The gaggle of kids who’d taken up playing with Bucky’s footballs all begged Steve and Fitz to throw with them once they really got started. 

Steve got up and started throwing easy routes to an extremely enthusiastic Alice Dugan. She giggled wildly every time she caught one of his passes. “Touchdown! I’m an all star!” she squealed as she spiked the ball at the bottom of Bucky’s backyard.

“It's a pro bowler!” Dum Dum yelled from where he’d claimed Steve’s chair.

“This is the trouble when defensive stars have offensive kids,” Steve said over his shoulder.

“I see you gettin’ cocky, rookie!” Dum Dum shot back.

“Daddy come play tackle with us!”

“You got it, sweat pea!” Dum Dum handed his beer to his wife with a kiss on the cheek. He came running straight for her and scooped her up and tossed her, shrieking with laughter, over his shoulder.

They traded off throwing and tackling for the kids as afternoon slowly turned into evening. When Sam and Scott got pressed into catching wobbly throws, Steve seized the opportunity and slid back to his spot with Bucky. Clint eventually took his turn when he got up and offered to start pooch punting for the kids.

“Hey, lemme ask you something.” Bucky flopped his hand out to swat at Steve’s leg.

“Sure.”

“What’s goin’ on with you and Stark?”

“What--what do you mean?” Steve pulled his legs up into the chair, making himself unreachable to Bucky’s flailing hand.

“The weekend you move in, he not only asks me and my guys if we’ll help you move in. ‘Show him how welcoming we can be’ he says, and he manages to swing by in person. Then, he's never once come to my events with the shelter, but the first time I bring you, bam, Stark. _And_ , not only does he show up, he sweeps you off in that flashy car of his. See the way I figure it, _you’re_ the common denominator.”

Steve took a slow breath, even as he felt the sharp drop of ice in his gut. “So?” he asked, relieved his voice came steady but not sharp.

“So what’s the deal? You two friends?”

“Y-yeah, we’re...friends.”

Bucky rolled over onto his side to fully face Steve. “That was the sketchiest agreement I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t really know what you want me to say?” Steve asked. “You asked if we were friends, I said yeah.”

“Hey, hey.” Bucky grabbed the corner of the hammock chair and tugged it towards him. “You are way more wound up than this question deserves. What’s goin’ on, dude?”

Steve gripped his hands together in his lap and squeezed them tightly. “It’s...early.”

Bucky shook the chair, sending Steve waggling weirdly back and forth. “You--you’re…” his voice dropped to a whisper “are you _dating_ our team owner?”

“It’s not illegal,” Steve muttered mutinously.

“Hot damn!” Bucky smacked Steve’s shin. “He treating you good?”

Steve nodded.

“He better be, or, you know…”

Steve smiled. “Is this a reverse shovel talk?”

Bucky nodded. “We look out for our own. And you’re one of us now.”

“Who’re we lookin’ out for?” Clint asked from across the yard.

“Nothin’. Mind your business,” Bucky yelled back. He turned back to Steve. “Seriously. I don’t care who it is, they don’t treat you right, they can answer to me. Also, this isn’t my business to tell, so don’t worry about any of..that.” He eyeballed Steve one more time before he flopped back down. “You look happy. Looks good on ya.”

Steve watched the side of Bucky’s upturned face for nearly a full minute before he felt like he could take a full breath. He coiled up tighter, willing his breathing to remain steady as he pulled his phone out. He smiled at the text Tony had sent so late last night it had actually tipped over into early morning.

> _Happy birthday, Steve. x_

His fingers felt disconnected from the rest of his body as he typed a reply.

> _Thanks. Happy Fourth. x_
> 
> _So, Bucky’s already figured out we’re dating._

Tony’s typing bubbles popped up then disappeared three times before his reply came through.

> _Is he giving you a hard time?_

Steve choked out a laugh as he collapsed back in his seat. He hadn’t expected either Bucky or Tony’s reaction to each other, but he could admit that he was pleased at least one of his teammates wasn’t going to flip out over who he chose to take out. 

> _He asked me the exact same thing about you._
> 
> _He said I look happy and it’s a good look for me. x_

Tony’s reply this time came in much faster. 

> _Good. You deserve people in your corner. x_

Steve's smile was all fondness when he responded.

> _I got you, don’t I? x_

He practically glowed when Tony's reply buzzed in just as the fireworks over the park started lighting up Bucky's backyard.

> _Definitely. x_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I mentioned this on my tumblr, but I'm going to be updating every other Sunday because I'm apparently not able to write six to eight K per week while working?! Who knew?!
> 
> Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for all your kind comments and kudos. I'm always so excited to share with y'all, and your kind words are just the icing on that cake.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this universe, the West Side Stadium is a thing that happened once Tony bought the Jets and rebranded them, so the Avengers have their own home stadium. Let’s be honest, Tony Stark would not stand for a team he owns to have to share a home stadium. “But they were practicing across from MetLife!” I hear you shriek. Yes, this is so. The proposed footprint for West Side Stadium wouldn’t have fit a practice facility too, and the Avengers would’ve been using those facilities before Tony bought them anyway because as the Jets they would have been sharing MetLife and as a result their practice facilities would be more convenient to MetLife. I’m telling you all this so you know I do actually believe in continuity and that I didn’t just yeet my story into a settings abyss.
> 
> The Obscurely Cool Tunes playlist is real. One of my coworkers made it and every song on there is, according to him, something everyone knows and belts out without shame, no matter who you are. He’s not wrong.
> 
> Thanks as always to Betheflame and Kestrel337. If y'all had any idea how often I pop into their lives with sentences that start with "hey do you think Steve..." They are legit saints (not New Orleans Saints though)...sorry, I couldn't resist.
> 
> Also, please note the rating change!

_ For any NFL team, the chance to capture Super Bowl glory is fleeting. The New York Avengers came one game short of getting the chance to compete for football’s top prize last season. This offseason, the Avengers have been hard at work making the changes they hope will get them a shot at glory. A deeper roster. New players. Returning players who have been forged in the fires of last season’s action. And a returning coach who knows how to win even when his back’s against a wall. The Avengers’ prospects look brighter than the lights atop Stark Tower, but to get into the playoffs and have a shot at Super Bowl glory, this is their opportunity to get things right. The Avengers have exactly one month before the NFL regular season begins, and in the words of head coach Nick Fury, “we have a lot to prove.” _

“So are we all gonna get cut if we can’t beat the Giants?” Sam asked as they lunged and twisted down the field during warmups.

“Yes,” Clint tossed over his shoulder from the line in front of Sam and Steve. “Stark and Fury’ll burn the whole thing to the ground, salt the earth the stadium was built on, and start from scratch.”

“No they won’t,” Hopkins said from further down their own line as they reached the 40 and turned in preparation to start making the trip back downfield. “We lost the Hall of Fame Game last season 42-13, and apart from a speech that made us all feel like we’d shamed our mamas with our performance, no one got cut who wasn’t already in line for it.”

“Says the guy who was the most sought-after trade last offseason,” T’Challa pointed out.

“You sayin’ I don’t worry about things like cuts?” Hopkins asked with a laugh as they lunged back into their endzone. 

“I’m just saying,” a sly grin grew on T’Challa’s face. “Your concerns are different than most others’.”

“Positions,” Fury barked over their banter as he made his way down the field, scowling at both his players and the playsheet in his hands. 

“Not even snapped the first play and he’s already trying to figure out what needs fixing,” Fitz said when he appeared at Steve’s elbow tossing a ball easily from one hand to the other. “We’ll have a hot minute to throw, just us, before we gotta start warming up routes.”

They commandeered a stretch of the field near the sideline, and Fitz lazily went through his long pass form as he threw the ball to Steve. “So how’s this gonna work?” Steve asked as he flipped the ball over in his hands then trotted back in imitation of his three-step drop before he released his throw back.

“You were in the strategy meeting,” Fitz said, rolling his eyes.

Steve rolled his eyes right back. “You know what I mean. I’ve played in scrimmages that didn't mean a damn thing and I’ve played real games. Nothing like this.”

Fitz held the ball against his hip while he gave Steve’s question real thought. “It’s…” he pump faked while he looked for words, and when he released the ball, his words came too. “Fury’ll want you to treat it like a real game from the mental side, for sure. Thinking through your play selection, your down and distance decisions, handoff choices, passing progression, all that. But the nice thing is, it won’t impact our record.”

“What about the physical side?” 

“We’ll be at about...95? 98? Percent.” Fitz smiled. “The tackling’ll be for shit mostly. You’ve seen how the defense has been doing it in practice.” He tossed Steve an easy shovel pass. “Since this is the first time anyone’s defense is really going anything like full out, it’ll be messy.”

“You have two minutes,” Fury barked.

“Hydrate,” Fitz ordered. “You have no idea how long you’ll be on the field once we get rolling, and while TV timeouts are long, the refs don’t always let you get water. They think you’re getting intel.”

Steve shook his head. “I have a literal radio in my helmet. How much more intel could I get?”

“You can’t talk back, though. You could during a water break. Some refs get weird about it.”

“Rogers!” Natasha’s voice cut across their conversation, and once she had Steve’s attention, she motioned him over with a single crook of her finger.

Fitz winked and slapped Steve’s shoulder. “Go get a good luck kiss from your girl. Then we gotta warm routes.”

“Hey Nat,” Steve said as he trotted over to where she was sitting in the front row. He smiled up at her, all ease and friendliness. “Come to see the payoff for all your hard work?”

Natasha waved him off. “I’ll consider it payoff when you’re a franchise name.” She smiled down at him in his red jersey. “This is a good start though, Rogers.”

NFL warmup, Steve eventually acknowledged, didn’t feel that different from college. He and Fitz threw for the receivers to help them settle into their cuts and routes. The linemen did some contact warmups and the defensive secondary did some tracking drills with the running backs. Clint wove between the groups as he warmed his kicks from each of the three hashes. 

NFL pregame, it turned out, took probably twice as long. The announcer introduced starters for both teams individually, the front office staff did a community outreach recognition, a local high school choir sang the national anthem, and the coin toss was presided over by a young lady who’d been a finalist on the last season of The Voice. 

When the Avengers won the toss and deferred, Clint tugged his helmet on muttering, “Fuckin’ finally. Let’s go, boys,” he hollered to his kickoff crew, and the special teams trotted out to start the first game of the preseason. 

The first drive looked rusty on both sides. It was clear this was the first time in months either team was running, passing, and tackling full out, so silly miscues, slipped tackles, and dropped passes were the order of the day. The next two drives, though, made Fitzsimmons look really good. He connected on a few clean passes, but the second drive eventually stalled thanks to some inconveniently timed penalties and some decent pass coverage. The third drive was more passing plays, with a key first down from Sam, before T’Challa ultimately punched into the endzone on an end-run play that looked like it had been designed specifically for him.

“Okay, that was my last drive for today,” Fitz said as he exchanged a high five with Clint as Barton ran on for the PAT and Fitz ran off. “You’re up, Rookie.”

Steve tugged at the play-call wristband on his arm that mirrored Fitz’s. “What do I need to know?”

Fitz grabbed the Stark Pad sitting next to the quarterback headset and dragged Steve down next to him on the bench. “Okay, so you need to watch out for this guy.” He pointed at the defensive end who’d been working on punching through the offensive line all afternoon. “Ronan’s built like a brick shithouse. If he gets through the line, just throw it away. He’ll flatten you. He’s easily the hardest hit I’ve taken in my whole career.” He zoomed in on two of the linebackers who’d decided to double-team Sam the second he started making quality grabs “These guys. Thane. He and fuckin’ Raker are headhunters. They’re assholes too, so make sure your read call doesn’t leave them open to double teams. Okay, this guy, Yondu, he’s old, but--”

Steve never did find out Fitz’s opinion on Yondu because Bucky had tackled the Giant’s running back, a whippy guy named Royal for a loss and stripped the ball.

“Let’s go, Stevie,” Bucky yelled as he skipped off the field. He grabbed Steve by the shoulderpads and shook him. “I got you some good ass field position. Don’t fuck it up.”

Steve nodded from inside his helmet. “I won’t let you down, Bucky.”

“Gentlemen, to me.” Fury gathered them up and reminded them of the short field offensive strategy while the booth reviewed the turnover. Once the head ref announced confirmation of the turnover to the approving screams of the fans, Fury slapped Steve on the helmet. “You’ve been gearing for this specific team all week in practice. You’re ready for this.”

The offense gathered around Steve behind the line of scrimmage, and he eyeballed the Giants in their road whites while he relayed the call from their offensive coordinator. Once he’d relayed the play, they dispersed into the lineup. “Silent count starts at seven,” Steve said to Volstagg as they lined up in the shotgun. 

Volstagg made it clear why he’d been given the franchise tag when he not only gave Steve a clean snap but then immediately stepped downhill with M’Baku to take on Ronan. Steve dropped back, watching the play develop. Hopkins, his first choice, was getting double teamed by Thane and Raker, who were doing their best to pull his jersey off without actually drawing a flag. “Double team means someone’s free,” he muttered as he started to go through his reads.

Scott Lang, the undersized fifth round pick was out in the flat completely open. Steve smiled grimly to himself as he lined up his pass and let the ball fly. The pass slotted neatly into Scott’s hands, and he turned and scampered for a first down, stepping neatly out of bounds right before Yondu could get a tackle on him. 

“You got me the ball!” Scott exclaimed as Steve ran up to meet him at the new line. 

“That double team’s kickin’ my ass,” Hopkins complained. “Got you an important look, though, Short Round.”

“Another!” Thor yelled as he slapped both Scott and Steve on the back. “We are within the red zone. This is our chance to tear the score open.”

Thor was right. A 14-0 lead heading into halftime would be huge. He made the call, and the offense lined up, pistol this time. 

This time, Thane and Raker split up to cover Hopkins and Sam. Thane, Steve had noticed, was just a little too willing to commit himself to the first look, so when he pumped at Sam, Thane dropped a half step off Hopkins and towards Sam. That was enough. He fired a bullet to Hopkins right as his route took him across the goal line.

The fans went nuts, screaming for both Hopkins and Steve. “C’mere, I’m gonna give the ball to my mom,” Hopkins said as Steve charged into the endzone and Hopkins wrapped him up in a hug.

“Ball mama,” Hopkins said and reached to meet his mom’s outstretched hands with the ball.

“Hug Steven for me,” she said, clutching the ball to her chest.

“Done,” he said and wrapped his arm around Steve’s shoulders again.

~~*~~ 

The second half wasn’t quite as easy as the first. The Giants made some adjustments with their defense that made drives a little more work, but the adjustments couldn’t cover fundamental quirks in their players, and the Avengers were able to put another couple touchdowns on the board and Clint tacked on a field goal. The Giants got their act together on offense in the second half, but they only managed two touchdowns by the end of the game.

After the post-game talk from Fury, where he actually cracked a pleased smile, showers, and time in front of the media Steve and Fitz were two of the last players left, only a few other stragglers were still dodging between the custodial staff as they headed for the exits. Steve said his goodbyes to Fitz when he got swarmed by his wife and kids, then dug his phone and headphones out of his backpack and hit play on Bucky’s Obscurely Cool Tunes playlist as he headed for the exit. Halfway down the block, a text alert dimmed Genesis for a split second, so Steve pulled his phone back out of his pocket.

> _ Come over after you’re through?  _
> 
> _ Talk to me while I watch the recap since I didn’t get to go. _

Steve smiled down at his phone and picked out a quick reply.

> _ Leaving the stadium now. I’ll be there in 30. _

He hustled down the stairs and into the Hudson Yards station, which still teemed with fans leaving the game. A couple in Avengers jerseys came up next to him on the platform, then proceeded to blink at him for ten straight seconds until the woman, whose jersey read I Said Yes across the back, blurted, “You’re Steve Rogers!”

Steve tugged an earbud out and smiled awkwardly, praying this wouldn’t turn into A Thing. He just wanted to get to the Tower and see Tony.

Her companion, whose jersey said Marry Me, squeezed her shoulders. “Babe, don’t. Guy’s just tryin’ to get home.” He turned his attention to Steve. “Great game, man. You had some killer throws.”

Steve felt his smile settle into something warmer, more genuine. “Thanks. It was great to come out on top.” When the 7 pulled into the station, Steve nodded at their jerseys as the anticipatory shuffle started ahead of the doors opening. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Hey thanks, man,” Marry Me said, and slapped Steve on the shoulder before he steered I Said Yes towards one of the open car doors. 

Steve peeled off and got in at the other end of the car, not wanting to feel obligated to keep talking to them, or for them to keep talking to him. He flicked idly through ESPN as the train rocked under the city, rolling his eyes at the analyst who claimed Fitz “looked more than a little tired and sloppy next to the precise, energized Rogers.” First games looked different on everyone. 

He tapped on the highlight video of his second half touchdown pass to Sam, and smiled at video him as he went sprinting down the field and held Sam up when he’d jumped into his arms. The clip cut before they made it back to the sideline, but they’d both been swallowed up by the entire team, offense and defense both leaping at the chance to pile on the pair of rookies who’d connected for a touchdown. Neither Bucky’s TFL and strip nor any of Scott’s neat catch-and-runs for a couple key first downs had made it into a highlight package. Even still, he knew Bucky, who had been worried about his arm strength, had to feel good about his outing, and Scott, who had been stressed about the way Fury would watch him in practice, had to be feeling more relaxed after his performance. 

Steve’s phone pinged right as he stepped into the Stark Tower lobby. “What timing,” he muttered to himself, heading for the private elevator. Tony had insisted on adding his biometrics the third time he’d come over since it had been off hours and security wasn’t there to admit him and Tony had just gotten home from Singapore and couldn’t be arsed to get off the couch and come bring him up.

> _ When you get here, come up to 90. _

The hallway on the 90th floor was bathed in dim, afterhours lighting, but the massive workshop that dominated the entire level blazed with light and the thump from the bassline of a Black Sabbath song gave the whole floor a heartbeat. Steve trailed his fingers over the T. Stark engraved on the glass next to the door then knocked gently on the glass.

The music turned down, and Tony’s voice demanded, “Why’d you kill the jams, J?”

The same gently cultured voice from the penthouse replied “Mr. Rogers is requesting entry.”

The lock on the door disengaged with a hiss, like some sort of hermetic seal disengaging, and Steve slipped inside. The lock reengaged behind him, and Tony’s slightly muffled voice came from the far end of the floor when he hollered, “Down here, Hot Hand.”

Steve dropped his bag by the door so he didn’t accidentally smack something worth more than his whole contract and wandered through the cluttered yet functional workspace. A whole bank of sleek computer monitors cycled through images of beautiful cars, and Steve smiled as the screen saver lovingly traced the curves of the Ferrari Tony had picked him up in nearly a month ago now. 

“You gotta come all the way into the depths of my lair,” Tony called, making Steve look down the length of the workshop towards the sound of his voice. 

Down at the far end, a whole wall displayed iterations of the Iron Man suit, a blocky, clunky thing that looked like it had been made of spare parts cobbled out of the trash stood a few niches down from the suit Steve remembered seeing on replay after replay of the debacle at the Grand Prix. Now the briefcase sat cracked open like a clam with the handles for the gauntlets ready for Tony to reach in and grab them again. All the way down at the end, an artfully articulated suit that was almost all gold gleamed like wet paint under its floodlight. 

A pair of single-strut robots that looked like Tony had stolen them from an auto assembly line puttered around the edges of his active workspace. One of them had what looked like the cone of a fire extinguisher gripped in its claw as it hovered, somehow nervously, around Tony like it was worried Tony was a prime candidate for spontaneous human combustion. The other one seemed a bit calmer as it held a tray of parts within Tony’s reach.

In the center of it all, Tony knelt on one of his workbenches looking like a greasemonkey wet dream in a black undershirt with a pair of welding goggles nested in his hair and a host of tools spread out around him. In front of him, the chest of a suit hung suspended over him with a tangle of wires hanging out of the body cavity like multicolored guts. The armor itself was a beautiful, deep red with only a few hints of gold under the ribs and wrapped over the shoulders, sleek enough that it looked like a second skin.

“I can see where our home unis come from,” Steve teased with a wink as he came and leaned his hip against the worktable where Tony was kneeling. 

“Oh, you are a clever one,” Tony said and smiled down at him. “JARVIS, hit me with the highlights,” he demanded, and one of the monitors near the table Tony was on sprang to life with a way more in-depth recap of the game than Steve suspected was available on NFL Network.

“How does your AI have access to a better highlight reel than any of the major sports networks?” Steve asked as he fiddled idly with one of the t-handle screwdrivers next to Tony’s knee.

Tony hummed from where his head and shoulders had disappeared up the Iron Man body cavity. “I do have access to all the footage shot in the stadium that  _ I own _ , you realize,” he said without bothering to poke his head out of the suit.

“Point,” Steve acknowledged. 

“Sir, Mister Rogers is about to score,” JARVIS said placidly.

Tony dropped down onto his heels and focused on the playback in front of him. “Tell me about it? Is this the one--”

“Just watch,” Steve said. 

“This one’s a little play action pass to DeAndre. Hopkins,” he murmured as the play took shape. He pointed at the space that opened up downfield when the Giants’ linebackers all committed to the run. “Their line totally bought the run look we offered, and...there...that’s when the linebacker covering Hopkins bought my pump fake. Half-step of wiggle room’s all DeAndre needs. And...” He watched Hopkins run easily into the endzone, ball in hand. “Touchdown.”

Tony smacked a kiss onto his cheek. “You sound so delightfully smug about that.”

“It was good. Thor and M’Baku gave a great look with their downhill blocks that the defense totally bought.” Steve looked up at Tony where he’d risen back up to keep fiddling with the chest piece. “This is a really...stand up team to play for. Everyone really works to pull their weight.”

Tony set the wirestrippers he’d been using down and sat back on his heels again. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the game, gorgeous, but corporate espionage can’t always get solved with lawyers.”

Steve shook his head. “It’s only preseason.”

“That’s like saying something's ‘only’ going through a soft launch.”

“Still only preseason.” Steve turned and faced Tony fully. “Did’ya solve it? Your corporate espionage.”

Tony rose up on his knees and shuffled over to the edge of the table, grinning down at him proud and a little heated. “Don’t I always? Justin Hammer’s got nothin’ on me.” 

“That is the word on the street,” Steve murmured as he slid his arms around Tony’s waist and flicked his gaze up at Tony through his lashes.

“So you scored tonight,” Tony said and wrapped his arms loosely around Steve’s neck.

“Mmm,” Steve agreed lowly. “Twice, as a matter of fact.”

“Wanna make it three times?” Tony asked before he seized Steve’s face in his hands and leaned down to kiss him. 

“Been waitin’ all night to use that one?” Steve asked between kisses that were rapidly turning more heated. He slipped his hands into Tony’s back pockets and grinned when Tony sifted his fingers though Steve’s hair.

“You have no idea,” Tony panted softly against Steve’s lips before he dove back in to kiss him again. The way his hand curled into the back of Steve’s collar was surprisingly intimate, and he hummed at the scrape of Tony’s blunt nails against the back of his neck.

Steve sighed when Tony slipped his tongue in, turning their kisses wet and a little desperate. “Not that I don’t--Jesus, Tony--don’t love you being taller than me, but don’t--ugh--don’t your knees hurt on that metal?” he gasped as Tony bent to trail a string of sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down his jaw and onto his neck.

“Is that a hint?” Tony asked against his neck.

Steve’s laugh sounded a little breathless, even to his own ears. “Could be.” 

“I still haven’t made good on the...mmm... _ complete _ tour of the penthouse I promised you,” Tony offered.

They traded a few more lazy, messy kisses until Steve slid his hands down onto Tony’s thighs then dragged them slowly back up until he could squeeze Tony’s sides. “I could be persuaded.”

He stopped cold when Tony’s only response to his hands was a pained grimace. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

Tony shook his head. “It’s nothing...well...nothing serious.”

“Tony,” the warning note in Steve’s voice was clear. 

Tony dropped down so he was sitting flat on the table, his legs dangling over the edge. “Have you ever rolled down a hill in a tire or an empty 50-gallon drum when you were little?”

“Sure, a few times. Drove my ma crazy. She was sure I’d get tetanus or, I don’t know, cholera from ‘em. Plus...” Steve shrugged, “you know I make my living getting run into by guys who are bigger than me.”

“So you know what that feels like?” 

“Cholera?” Steve asked a little dubiously. “Can’t say I do.”

Tony rolled his eyes and smacked Steve’s chest. “No. The physical feeling of rolling around in something not  _ really _ sized for your body, and being knocked around by someone who  _ wants _ to take you out.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Steve nodded. “I’d come home with all these weird bruises, and my mom asked me once if I was secretly friends with Tyler Durden and just using football as a front.”

Tony laughed, bright and pleased. “Well, in news that will shock you, rattling around in a giant tin can isn’t much better.” He pushed the chest piece and watched it swing gently from its overhead mount for a moment before he spoke again. “One of the things I’m trying to do is get the armor more form fitting, but I think I’m reaching the point of diminished returns on that front, so…”

“So you rattle?” Steve finished.

He nodded. “Yeah. I rattle. And then come home with bruises.”

Steve could feel the wrinkle form between his eyes as he frowned. “Nothing serious, though, right?”

Tony curled an arm around Steve’s waist and shook his head. “Nothing some ice and a few anti-inflammatories won’t fix right up.” He squeezed Steve’s waist one more time then released him and hopped down from the workbench and started tidying his tools. “JARVIS, I think I’m done for the night. Bookmark, save, shut it down.”

“Certainly, Sir.”

“So, can I lure you upstairs?” Tony asked after he’d finished putting everything away and turned off the lights until only the spotlights on the individual suits of armor remained to light their way back to the entrance. He hooked his fingers in the front pocket of Steve’s jeans and started tugging him back towards the entrance.

Steve smiled down Tony’s fingers in his pocket as he let himself be led. “I could be persuaded,” he repeated.

By the time they got in the elevator, Steve had curled an arm around Tony’s shoulder, and Tony had an around his waist. They traded slow, hazy kisses as they rode the three floors up to Tony’s home. Inside, Steve dropped his bag next to the bench in the entryway then let Tony pull him back in.

“I don’t--”

Tony shook his head, not bothering to pull back from where they’d fallen into each other’s orbit. “Ribs aren’t up for anything...strenuous.”

“I--I’m sure we’ll think of something,” Steve murmured.

Tony grinned against his lips. “‘Course we will.” He started backing Steve towards the master suite, steering them using Steve’s belt loops. “Little more of the tour then.”

Unlike the open and sleekly modern layout of the rest of the penthouse, Tony’s bedroom was all sinuous curves and intimate spaces done up in dark, quiet greys with low, warm lighting. Tony released Steve and disappeared into his closet with an easy “be right back.” Steve kicked off his shoes and tugged off his socks, lining them up by the door. 

“I--um--we need to talk about something,” Tony’s voice was uncharacteristically nervous when he reemerged from the closet barefoot and having traded his grease-stained work pants for a pair of sweats that looked touchably soft.

“Okay?” The butterflies that had gone on vacation after Bucky’s Fourth of July party returned and started hurling themselves around his stomach.

Tony drummed nervously on his sternum. “I need to show you something before this--” he gestured between them, “goes any further.”

Steve nodded and perched on Tony’s desk chair.

Tony settled on the edge of his bed closest to Steve and tugged on the hem of his undershirt for a moment before he nodded to himself and yanked his shirt off. Bruises of varying depths and severity mottled his skin, but thankfully none of them looked terribly deep or large. A black circle of what looked like neoprene covered the middle of his chest, standing out from the splotches of bruising for it’s perfect neatness. Tony tapped the black neoprene, drawing Steve’s attention away from the bruises on his torso. “It’s...this.”

Steve frowned. “I’ve seen neoprene before, Tony.”

“It’s what’s under it, jackass,” Tony said and reached out to shove at Steve’s knee with his foot.

Steve reached out with his own toes and shoved at Tony’s knee where it was curled under him. “So what’s under it?”

He sighed. “How much do you know about my kidnapping in Afghanistan?”

Steve picked at the seam on his jeans while he thought back. “It...I remember CNN speculating that you were already dead by the time that ransom video aired. One of their analysts said he wouldn’t be surprised if a be--murder video turned up soon. You walked out of the desert right after the first season of  _ Homeland _ started, so our punter at the time thought you’d been turned into some kind of sleeper cell.” Steve rolled his eyes at the memory of Rusty insisting the wild premise for that show could have been remotely true. He shrugged at Tony. “Pretty much everything the news carried was speculation. I imagine the whole thing got locked up behind a red classified stamp.”

Tony nodded. “You’re not wrong.” He motioned Steve over. “Come--come here.”

Steve went willingly and curled up on the edge of the bed next to Tony. 

“If we’re going to get...serious...I want to show you something now when we can talk about it, so it’s not a nasty surprise. I doubt it’ll be much of a surprise, especially not after I fell asleep on you when you came over after my Singapore trip. Oh, I’ll need to get you to sign an NDA because--”

“Tony,” Steve cut in gently then wrapped his arm around Tony’s waist. “You’re rambling. Just...just show me. I promise to behave like an adult and not just blindly flip my shit.”

“Okay.” Tony nodded. “Okay. Here goes. No freaking out.” 

Steve nodded. “No freaking out,” he promised. 

Tony snaked two fingers under the neoprene and gently peeled it off himself, but before Steve could get a look at what it was covering, Tony turned away to put the fabric on his nightstand. When he turned back, his whole upper body was lit blue from the light coming from his chest. 

Steve reached out to touch the circle of brilliant light before his brain caught up with his fingers, and he snatched his hand back just before it made contact. “I don’t-- _ what is it _ ?” he asked, awed.

Tony drummed his fingers against what sounded like glass covering the clear blue light. “Pacemaker.”

Steve looked up at Tony with a small smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pacemaker that looks quite like this.”

“Fancy pacemaker?” he tried.

Steve laughed softly. “If you say so. It’s...It’s  _ beautiful _ .” He reached out, but still he let his fingers hover the barest inch above the device. “Can I--does it hurt if I touch it?”

Tony shook his head. “It’s been healed for years.”

When Steve finally let himself touch, the light filtered through his spread fingers and illuminated Tony’s smile. He grinned when Tony shoved into his arms and scrambled into his lap like some sort of overgrown cat.

“So now that  _ that’s _ out of the way.” He smirked down at Steve, all heat and intention. “I was told--” he pulled Steve’s shirt off then ran his hands across Steve’s shoulders. “I was told you were...what was it? Open to persuasion?”

“The rumor mill’s been good to you,” Steve responded then leaned up and kissed him. “Go on. Persuade me.”

Steve and Tony both watched his fingers trail down Steve’s chest to his stomach, increasing the pressure when Steve’s stomach twitched under the too-light touch. He stopped at the button of Steve’s jeans, his nail scraping the raised lettering on the button then glanced up at Steve through the fan of his dark lashes. “I was thinking…”

Steve grinned. “Oh were you?”

Tony shoved him back to lay on the bed. Steve couldn’t help but smile wider at how imperious Tony tried to look still straddling his waist. “Yes. I was. I was thinking...it might be...nice if these came off,” he said with a gentle tug at Steve’s jeans. “I mean it  _ is _ our third--”

“Fifth.”

“Fifth date. Sixth, really, if you count that time I came over and read contracts on your couch while you talked on the phone with Fitzsimmons and used my back as a prop for your playbook.”

“We can count it,” Steve said magnanimously. He arched his back and sucked in his abs so Tony could get at the button and zip. “I think I could agree to your terms.” 

Once Tony had his pants open, though, he stopped, his hands just resting on the sliver of exposed skin. Steve tugged at the waistband of his own pants. “So what about these?”

“What about ‘em?” Tony asked, feigning nonchalance.

“You  _ know _ what,” Steve retorted then surged up and caught Tony around the waist. He flipped them easily, laughing as Tony flopped back onto the bed, arms spread wide to catch Steve as he landed on top of him. 

Tony slid his hands into Steve’s pants, and Steve jolted forward as Tony got his hands around his ass. He could feel himself going loose, letting instinct, the desire to feel good take over. 

“I’m not sure I do,” Tony murmured, still running his hands over the curve of Steve’s ass then back out of his pants and down his denim covered thighs.

Steve sat up on his knees and rested his hands on the gapped waistband of his pants. “Just so I’ve got this straight--”

Tony snorted a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, the irony is crushing.” Steve rolled his eyes. He stood up and started tugging his jeans and boxer briefs down, inching them over his trim hips, but stopped just short of pulling them down far enough to really give Tony a show. “So you just wanna see--”

“Not just see,” Tony interrupted. He sat up and ran his hands up Steve’s thighs, letting his fingers dig into the muscle just enough to register. “I want to get my hands on you. My mouth on you. Mess up that All-American... _ thing _ you’ve got going on.”

Steve let go of the pants that were still barely up. “Do it.”

Tony pounced, grabbing Steve’s jeans and yanking them the rest of the way down. When he pulled Steve back down onto the bed next to him, Steve grabbed his shoulders and twisted them so they landed side by side facing each other. Steve kissed him, nipping at Tony’s lower lip when they separated for air. 

“Get these off...off,” Tony gasped, kicking futilely at the tangle of fabric still around Steve’s left ankle.

Steve shook it off, then rolled onto his back, taking Tony with him. “How’re you gonna mess me up?” Steve asked with his most innocent expression as he slipped his hands into Tony’s sweats then blinked. “Commando?” He squeezed Tony’s ass. “Someone was sure of himself.”

“Genius,” Tony kissed the word into his mouth. He started trailing kisses down Steve’s chest, pausing to suck one of Steve’s nipples into his mouth.

Steve arched under the sensation that ran all the way down his spine straight to his cock, and he went from just feeling good to honest-to-god aroused like Tony’d flipped a lightswitch in his dick. He started prying Tony’s pants off him with intent, anxious now for as much skin on skin contact as he could get while Tony went back to attacking his mouth with lips and teeth and tongue.

“I can--show--Jesus Steve, those hands--show you the statis--istical likelihood--”

Steve shook his head, trying to use the feel of his hair rubbing against the bedspread to ground himself, as Tony slithered, completely naked, up against him and stroked a hand low over his stomach, teasing at the edge of his groin.

“Math later,” he insisted as he trailed a hand up Tony’s spine and into his beautiful hair.

“So,” Tony looked up at him from where he’d settled against Steve’s chest. His fingers crept out to idly circle Steve’s nipples “Can you be persuaded--”

“Probably,” Steve gasped at the ceiling and shuddered against Tony’s hands.

Tony huffed a laugh. He started smearing open-mouthed kisses down Steve’s stomach, but stopped when he got to Steve’s belly button. “Can you be persuaded to let me get my mouth on you?” he murmured against his skin and flicked his eyes up to meet Steve’s.

Steve nodded down at him. “I--yeah” 

Instead of jumping straight to the main event, Tony slid down between Steve’s legs with a quiet, “been waiting on  _ this _ .”

Starting at Steve’s knee, Tony sucked a line of kisses up the inside of his leg, until he got to the crease of his thigh. Steve exhaled a shuddering breath when Tony’s tongue teased just a bit at the base of his cock before he leaned up and took Steve’s whole length in his mouth just once in a slow, purposeful suck from root to tip.

“Tony!” Steve panted.

“Mmm, you like this,” Tony murmured against the base of his cock. He smiled up at Steve, his grin a promise of all the things he could do. “You ever think about why it’s called a  _ blow _ job when you’re really sucking?”

Steve shook his head, more than a little dazed.

“Because the  _ point _ …” he swirled his tongue around the head again then blew gently across the tip.

Steve whimpered helplessly, the hot-then-cold making him shiver.

“The point is to  _ blow _ your brains out. So all you can think of is pleasure.”

“I--God, Tony, please,” Steve groaned when Tony abandoned his cock completely to start teasing his way up his other thigh. “I call bullshit.”

“It’s true,” he hummed against the inside of Steve’s leg, making Steve’s whole body roll with the sensation of the vibration of voice against skin.

Halfway up, Tony stopped and sucked at the meat of his inner thigh, worrying the skin gently between his teeth. Steve moaned as Tony worked the hickey into his skin and tried to reach a hand down to touch himself, but Tony slapped his hand away with a muttered “patience.”

Tony leaned back and gave the vivid mouth-shaped bruise a considering look then smiled up at Steve. “Purple’s your color, gorgeous.”

Steve laughed, a thin little ribbon of sound as Tony turned his attention back to the sensitive skin of Steve’s thighs. 

When he reached Steve’s cock again, Tony grabbed his hips. “I want to blow your fucking mind, but I also need you to...choking’s not a thing I can deal with.”

Steve reached down to gently circle Tony’s wrist where it was lying next to his hip. “You can hold me down if you want.”

Tony slung his arm across Steve’s hips, like some kind of obscene belt then dipped his head and licked a stripe up the underside of Steve’s cock. When he got to the top, he immediately sucked Steve down, engulfing him in tight, wet heat. 

“God, Tony,” Steve panted and fisted a hand in his own hair to stop himself from grabbing Tony instead.

Tony hummed low in his throat, clearly pleased that Steve was on the edge of oblivion, as he worked Steve in increasingly insistent pulls with his mouth and tongue and hand, winding him higher, but keeping him balanced just on the razor edge of coming. Right as Steve opened his mouth to outright beg for something,  _ anything _ , to tip him over the edge, Tony slipped in just the barest hint of teeth as he traveled back up. 

“I’m...holy Jesus,” Steve groaned as Tony pulled off and the pleasure that had been building at the base of Steve’s spine crashed over him. He came over Tony’s hand and his own stomach, shaking with aftershocks as Tony worked him through the waves of release. 

Tony let him go before he could get oversensitive, and Steve immediately pushed Tony over onto his back. “You want my mouth or my hands?” he asked breathlessly as he ran his hands down Tony’s stomach to his hips then trailed his nails up Tony’s thighs, letting the mixed sensations wind him up.

Tony flailed back with one hand a little desperately until he got under one of the pillows and came back with a little bottle in hand. He passed it over with a smirk. “Show me what you got, Hot Hand.”

Steve laughed as he fumbled with the bottle. “I gotta learn to pass with my face to get my mouth on you?”

Tony shook his head and arched into the hand Steve had resting on his ribs with a small, desperate noise. “I wanna be able to enjoy you the first time, and that’s just..not possible right now. Too wound up.” He slapped the outside of Steve’s thigh. “Get those hands on me.”

As soon as Steve touched him, Tony reacted with his whole body, gasping and arching into Steve’s hands. It only took a few strokes until Tony’s own thrusts started to lose rhythm, and when he came, it was with a low moan that seemed to last forever. 

“Your hands are insured, right?” Tony asked in a dazed voice as he scratched his fingers lazily through Steve’s hair where he had collapsed against Tony’s shoulder.

Steve shook his head against Tony’s shoulder. “Not a boxer,” he murmured.

“That doesn’t matter.”

Steve laughed. “Between work and handjobs, I’ll look into it.”

“Good. Let’s get cleaned up,” Tony said and poked at the mess still on Steve’s stomach. “We’re gross.”

Steve swatted Tony’s hand away with a laugh. He didn’t need to know how ticklish Steve was. “Sounds good.”

“What time do you have to be in tomorrow?” Tony asked when they were under the spray in his ridiculously oversized shower.

Steve handed over the soap and stepped under the water to rinse off. “We have an afternoon start, so I don’t have to report till close to one.”

“Stay?” Tony asked from inside the shower as Steve stepped out and grabbed a towel.

The smile Steve directed at Tony from under the towel he was using on his hair was blinding. “Okay.”

~~*~~

Waking up in the penthouse of one of the tallest buildings in New York was a pretty singular experience. Steve lay in bed and watched the tower windows gradually transition from frosted to clear as the sun rose. The constant undercurrent of noise of a city in motion calmed this high up too, until only the thinnest threads of the hustle and bustle below reached them. 

Waking up with someone he was starting to care about was pretty special too, Steve decided as he curled his toes against sheets the perfect temperature and trailed his fingers lightly down Tony’s bare spine.

“How’re you awake already?” Tony groused into his pillow.

Steve swept his whole palm up Tony’s back. “Always been an early bird.”

“Gross.”

Steve laughed, but stopped when Tony’s phone started ringing.

“Oh, for the love--,” he groped at the nightstand until he finally grabbed the phone blaring “Back in Black.” “Hello?”

Steve got up and made for the bathroom, intending to give Tony his privacy, but before he’d gone two steps, Tony caught him by the wrist.

“Toothbrush in the cabinet under the sink.” He turned back to his phone. “Karen...Karen, we discussed this before you left on Friday, and I said I wanted it available by today…”

The cabinet under the sink looked like it was full of  _ Tony’s _ spare toiletries instead of the less expensive ‘oh you don’t have a toothbrush here take this’ kinds of things he expected. “Interesting,” Steve murmured as he grabbed one that wasn’t the same color as Tony’s and started brushing his teeth.

“Hey, what’re you doing for breakfast?” Tony asked as he poked his head around the door.

Steve shrugged. “Not drinking orange juice since I just brushed.”

“Ha ha.” Tony rolled his eyes and came to join Steve at the sink. He tapped the brush in Steve’s hand. “Leave that. For next time.” He was about to stick his own toothbrush in his mouth when he paused. “Do you mind having breakfast with my PA and me? We need to talk about a couple things.”

Steve shook his head. “As long as I can be home by 11 to get ready for practice.”

“Shoulda folded these,” he muttered as he gathered up his clothes and shook the wrinkles from a night on the floor out of them then put them back on. “We’re not going someplace are we?” he called through at Tony when he realized his clothes from last night were jeans and an Avengers t-shirt.

“Good God no,” Tony reemerged from the bathroom and started buzzing around in his closet. “Karen’s gonna come to us. Hey, do you want me to order breakfast?”

“No need. If you’ve got food, I can cook.”

Tony came out of the closet and settled himself on Steve’s lap. “All this and culinary skills too? Careful Mr. Rogers, or I’ll never let you go.”

Steve wrapped his arms around Tony’s waist and kissed him. “Don’t commit till you’ve tried it.”

Tony stood and started leading the way to the kitchen. “Can’t be worse than mine.”

Steve started investigating the food choices while Tony started coffee. “I”m not a gourmet, or anything. My cooking is very...utilitarian.” He started pulling the ingredients for omelettes out of the fridge.

“Make enough for three, I told Karen she could eat with us.”

Steve nodded and started cracking eggs. Before he had the first omelette out of the pan, the ding of the elevator signaled Karen’s arrival. 

“Kitchen, Care Bear,” Tony hollered from his spot at the breakfast bar in the direction of the click of heels on tile.

A woman dressed for the office came around the corner into the kitchen carrying a sleek leather attache case in one hand and her phone in the other. She offered them both a thin smile before she slipped onto the chair next to Tony and pulled a portfolio out of her bag. “I wish you’d had this on hand before you just opened your mouth.” She glanced at Steve. “What if he hadn’t handled it well? Or gone straight to the press?”

Tony smiled at Steve when he set a plate in front of him before he turned to Karen. “Well, he did. And he didn’t...hasn’t.”

“What can I make you, ma’am?” Steve asked in an effort to make them stop talking about him in front of him.

“Please, just call me Karen.” Her smile this time was much more genuine. “Just egg whites and spinach if that’s not too much trouble.” She turned back to Tony. “Please tell me you made more than coffee for just yourself.”

Steve made his own breakfast next only because in his experience, egg white omelettes cooked way faster than he expected, and since Karen and Tony were already wading into something, this would give them a bit more time without him hovering. 

“My goodness, this looks delicious,” Karen complimented him when he slid her plate in front of her.

“Thanks,” Steve said with a small smile as he settled on the stool on Tony’s other side.

“Now Steve, I do need to talk to you about something,” Karen said after her first bite. She flipped open her portfolio and passed it across Tony to him. 

He started paging through the document she’d handed him, and quickly realized it was a rather aggressively ironclad NDA. “What…”

“This covers a couple of things,” Karen picked up. “It covers any IP you’d see in both the SI and the private lab spaces Tony let you into last night  _ before you’d even signed this _ .”

Steve grimaced. He hadn’t even thought about that when Tony had simply said “come up to 90.” 

“To be fair, that lab is  _ technically _ part of my  _ home _ .” Tony didn’t look abashed in the slightest.

She frowned at him like the distinction he was making was rather academic before focusing back on Steve. “It also covers Mr. Stark’s proprietary medical device.”

“His pacemaker?” Steve asked.

Karen shot Tony a hard look. “Yes, his  _ pacemaker _ .” She turned a much kinder expression on Steve. “This really just says you promise not to disclose any IP you see either in a Stark Industries space or in Tony’s private workspace, since he has a rather appalling habit of bringing his work home with him and taking his pet projects to work. It also says you won’t discuss his medical device or condition with anyone.”

“ _ Anyone _ ?” Steve parroted.

“Anyone,” she confirmed. “This device is not only proprietary intellectual property, it’s also extremely medically necessary because of Mr. Stark’s heart condition.”

“I...okay.”

She passed over a pen. “Just initial next to each clause then sign, print, date.”

Tony leaned his head on Steve’s shoulder while Steve started reading. “I’m sorry about this,” he murmured.

“Hmm?” Steve glanced over. “Why are you sorry? It seems like Karen takes good care of you.”

Tony shrugged and his face went a little sad. “She does. I just...I just wish my life didn’t come with so many legal entanglements.”

Steve reached under the bar and squeezed Tony’s knee. “UCLA got trapped in Austin my freshman season because of that massive fight you had with your former business partner...Stane?”

Tony nodded against Steve’s shoulder.

“We got a crash course on the whole mess from one of their defensive secondary who’d interned with SI the prior summer. When you were still in weapons. It was awful, even from his limited perspective.” He finished signing and set the pen down. “So I get it.” He threaded his fingers through Tony’s hair and kissed his forehead. “You have good people who want to take care of you.”

Steve flipped the portfolio closed and slid it back across the marble bar top. “Here’s this.”

“Thank you Steve,” Karen said, scooping up the paperwork and sliding it back into her bag. “Will that be all, Mr. Stark?

Tony straightened up and gave Karen a fond smile. “That will be all, Ms. Friday.”

She stood and grabbed her things. “Then I’ll see you downstairs in a little while.” She smiled once more at Steve. “Thank you for breakfast, Steve.”

Once she was gone, Steve checked the time on the oven and sighed. He needed to get going. He stood to start cleaning up, but Tony’s hand on his wrist stopped him. 

“No need. I’ll take care of this. I know you need to get to the train, so let me walk you out.”

“Can I ask you something?” Steve asked once he had his shoes on and they were waiting on the elevator.

“Yes, I’m coming to week one, and yes, I’m wearing your jersey.”

Steve rolled his eyes and huffed out a laugh. “Thanks. But what I actually wanted to know is how you managed to find yourself a literal Gal Friday.”

Tony beamed. “You caught that? I’ll admit, it was a factor in making her offer.”

The elevator dinged, and Tony frowned, suddenly realizing they were about to start yet another week where they’d probably have to subsist on phone calls and texts. Even more so since this was Steve’s first road weekend.

“We’re away this coming weekend, but I’ll call you when we get settled in Atlanta,” Steve promised.

Tony leaned up and kissed him. 

God, the temptation to just stay and take the train straight to the practice complex was almost overwhelming. If he had workout clothes…

“Go, knock ‘em dead, Friday Night Lights.”

Steve grinned as he stepped into the elevator. His good mood lasted until he pulled his phone out of his bag. He only had one message from Sam, but it was damning.

> _ Are you okay? Why didn’t you come home last night? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank YOU for all your kind words and kudos. I seriously am humbled and joyed by all your kind words on each chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the Nacho Cheese playlist is a real thing. It’s, according to my work bestie, “all those songs you know and love, but don’t wanna admit you know or love.” He’s right. Every single one’s simultaneously a banger and a disaster.
> 
> If you want your heart to hurt, take a peek at the support work for this chapter. It explains the notion of "sharing the burden."
> 
> As always, Betheflame and Kestrel337 have all my love and thanks for their fabulous cheer and beta help. This would be a pale imitation of a story without them.

Steve didn’t trust the silence that greeted him when he slipped in the front door, and he scurried for his room, hoping he’d be able to slip in before Sam realized he was here. He hit the top of the stairs, and frowned at Sam sitting waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs up to his third floor apartment.

“So you’re _not_ dead,” Sam snapped like every disappointed dad in the history of the universe.

“Apparently,” Steve muttered as he pushed into his room.

Sam immediately jumped up to follow. “Say what?”

Steve dumped out his bag and started repacking it for the day. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I--It was a shit thing to do...to make you worry.”

“You’re damn right it was,” Sam griped. “Every time the house settled I about jumped outta my skin wondering if it was you or an axe murderer.” He swatted at Steve from his spot in the wingback chair next to the window. “So where were you that you couldn’t be bothered to call?”

Steve shrugged down at the workout clothes in his hands. “I was...I went out with a--a friend.”

“And you couldn’t call?” Sam demanded, incredulous.

“I honestly didn’t think.” He sat down on the edge of the bed so he could meet Sam’s eyes directly. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re fine, so I’m fine.” Sam reached out and smacked Steve’s knee. “But next time you’re gonna spend the night someplace else, just _tell_ me so I know you’re not dead in a dumpster somewhere.”

Steve offered him a thin smile. “I can do that.”

Sam let it lie until he had Steve trapped in his car on their way to practice. “So your girl must be pretty fancy, huh?”

“Hmm?” Steve looked up from the preliminary notes Fury had emailed him.

“Your girl. Few fans tweeted about seeing you in Midtown after the game. When I called Nat because you weren’t answering, she mentioned it.”

“No girl,” Steve murmured down at his tablet. It occurred to him as they pulled off the expressway just how that denial sounded, so he tried to cover it by focusing on the thing that really irked him. The thing that might actually cause this fragile thing he’d been building with Tony to blow wide open. “Anyway, who tweets about seeing a football player out on a Sunday night? That’s just weird and invasive.”

Sam gave Steve an appraising look while they waited on a traffic light. “You realize we--” he pointed between the two of them, “are celebrities now. This is not college where folks don’t recognize you unless your name’s on the back of your own shirt. People pay real ass money to wear your name on themselves.”

Steve grimaced. “Please don’t remind me.”

“Sounds like I need to,” Sam muttered as he pulled into the parking lot.

Steve shoved his tablet back into his backpack then hustled to get out of the car and catch up with Sam. “So if you knew I was in Midtown, why the freakout?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “This may come as a bit of a shock, but we’re friends. I care about what happens to you.”

“What’s happening to the baby quarterback?” Bucky demanded as he trotted over from his car to join them on their way to the locker room. He threw an arm around Steve’s neck. “Good show on Sunday, by the way.”

“Not a baby,” Steve muttered, ignoring the second half of Bucky’s statement in favor of being disagreeable.

“You’re 25,” Bucky pointed out. “You’re the baby.”

“Sam’s younger than me. And you’re only 26!” Steve objected hotly. 

“Yeah, but I have a year in the league on you,” Bucky retorted smugly. “Anyway, I didn’t call you _a_ baby, I called you _the baby quarterback_.”

Fury appearing on the other side of Steve’s locker paused their conversation. “Gentlemen, if you would get changed and get into medical or the cafeteria, we’re going to be starting promptly at one.” Fury turned his focus on Steve. “Rogers, if you could come with me?”

Steve nodded and hung his bag in his locker without bothering to change. He thought the notes he’d gotten from Fury that morning had been positive, but maybe they’d been looking for him to do more. Be better. He looked at Bucky for an answer, but Bucky just shrugged helplessly at him. 

He followed Fury out of the locker room and down the hall to the coaches’ suite on numb legs. Practice squad relegation, waivers, cuts, and the repercussions of all three flicked through his head in quick succession like someone flipping too fast through a PowerPoint slideshow. No matter what, he’d call Natasha as soon as they gave him his walking papers. Get her advice on how to proceed.

“In here,” Fury gestured to the door of his own office. He pointed at the chair across from his desk. “Have a seat.”

“I’m good,” Steve waived off the offer. If he was about to be let go, he wanted to be able to control his exit.

Fury shrugged and dropped into his own seat. He grabbed the phone. “Danvers, come join us please?”

A moment later Carol Danvers, the quarterback coach Pepper and Fury had rocked the league by hiring simply because she was a woman, poked her head around the door. “Have you told him yet?”

Fury cracked the closest thing Steve had seen to a smile in his time with the team. “Not yet. I figured he’d have questions for both of us once I did.”

Danvers sat in one of Fury’s chairs and patted the arm of the other one. “Have a seat. Let’s talk.”

“I--okay.” He sat, suddenly unsure what was going on.

Fury settled in his chair and fixed Steve with an appraising look. “Steve, Carol and I spent most of the morning rewatching your play from Sunday while we worked out the rough sketch of our game plan. And we saw a lot of very promising things.”

“Plenty of things still need work, obviously,” Danvers jumped in. “Some speed and timing work, some play selection, route identification, but that’s true of any rookie coming out of college. You’re used to a slower game with more time to make decisions.” 

Fury nodded. “So what we were talking about with a team like Atlanta…”

“A team headed into what looks to be the second year of a rebuild,” Carol added.

Fury sighed. “Do you want to jump all over me and tell him, or are you gonna let me do it?”

“Sorry.” Carol mimed zipping her lips but smiled at him like butter wouldn’t melt.

“The point of all this,” Fury said, still giving Carol a bit of a hairy eyeball, “is that a big part of the plan for this week has come down to quarterback choices. Fitzsimmons has a bit of a lingering knee issue from his college days, and it’s giving him a bit of trouble.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “Between that and your play this past weekend, the plan is to give you the start in Atlanta. You’ll have the opportunity to play the whole game, but Fitz will be there to give you the benefit of his wisdom and Isaiah will be there as your backup.”

“This means,” Danvers jumped back in, “you’ll be getting the majority of the reps in practice this week and we’ll be building the rest of the game plan around your strengths. Fitz will go on light reps, and Isaiah will keep working with the practice squad until we leave on Saturday.” She grinned at him. “So? What do you think?”

Steve stared at her, at a bit of a loss. He’d been so sure he’d been brought to Fury’s office to get cut that he needed a moment to readjust his thinking away from _what do I do once I’m out_ to _how do I get myself ready for Sunday._

He finally managed, “What do I need to know?”

By the time Danvers and Fury turned him loose, he had less than an hour to change and get to the team dining hall to get something for lunch before on-field practice started. “Thank god I’m paid to wear gym clothes,” he muttered as he threw on compression pants, shorts, and a shirt. Bucky and Sam were lingering over empty plates and glasses down to just ice, clearly waiting on him when Steve hustled in. 

“Everything okay?” Bucky asked as Steve plopped down with his plate.

Steve nodded. “Yeah. Fury and Danvers needed...to talk.” He wasn’t sure if Fitz’s nagging injury was common knowledge or not, so until someone else brought it up, he wouldn’t.

“Well that sounds completely shady,” Sam muttered. 

“At least I’m still here,” Steve said around a mouthful of chicken and rice.

“Of course you’re still here,” T’Challa materialized in the fourth seat at their table, protein shake in hand. “Fury wouldn’t let an arm and a mind like yours go so easily. Especially not…” he raised an eyebrow as if that should convey the rest of his sentence.

“Not what?” Sam prodded.

T’Challa shrugged. “I’ve heard some...concerns...about our starter.”

“ _Days of Our Lives_ called…” Sam murmured.

Bucky waved him off. “Everyone knows Fitzy bashed up his knee in college. ‘S why he’s always kinda hung around as a journeyman but has never really become, y’know…a household name.”

“But if it’s gotten aggravated…?” Sam wondered.

“Then Fury’ll do what he needs to,” Bucky answered pragmatically and T’Challa nodded. 

~~*~~

Tuesdays off, Steve decided, were the best. Everything was open, but nothing was weekend crowded, so he could take his time when he ran errands, and today, an email from Pier 5 Auto sent him in the direction of what he called “his” auto parts shop in Red Hook after his morning run. 

“Well if it isn’t tiny Steve!” Rashad, the owner, said when Steve stepped through the door. “How’re things?”

Steve smiled and offered Rashad a small wave. “Hey. I got your email that my parts had come in.”

“I saw you on TV,” Rashad called as he started digging through the special order shelves looking for Steve’s parts. “You looked good.”

Steve smiled. “Thanks.”

“It’s really neat, actually knowin’ a guy on the team,” Rashad continued. “I mean, I got my favorite players, you know that. Hell, everybody does.”

Steve nodded.

“But it’s good to know who a guy is off the field. That he’s someone who was raised right.” Rashad said and waved the scanning gun to emphasize his point. “None of these weirdos like that Hernandez guy.”

“The front office is pretty clear on their expectations for us,” Steve said.

Rashad nodded as he passed Steve’s parts over. “You keep doin’ what you’re doin’, and you’ll make all of Brooklyn proud, kid.”

“I’ll do my best. Have a good afternoon.”

“You too!” followed him out onto the street.

Late in the afternoon, Steve was finally caught up and ready for the rest of the upcoming week, so he took his phone and the little bluetooth speaker Jamaal had given him for Christmas out into the backyard and whipped the cover off the bike. Once he had the ignition kit laid out on a sheet of paper with all the parts labelled, he turned on Bucky’s Nacho Cheese playlist and picked up the first piece. His phone pinged with a text, but Fitz had said they’d talk strategy tomorrow, Bucky was at the animal shelter, and Sam, who had no shame about hollering out the window, was upstairs and quiet, so he ignored it.

A few minutes later, when he was trying to wrangle a single tiny screw into place, his phone pinged again.

And again less than a minute later.

When his phone went off twice in rapid succession, Steve finally set down the screwdriver and directions and grabbed his phone off the dock.

> _Babe x_
> 
> _Sweetheart x_
> 
> _Hot stuff x_
> 
> _You know, if you don’t reply, these pet names are gonna start getting weirder._
> 
> _Bowl of cereal I’ve left out for an hour x_

Steve rolled his eyes as he dialled Tony’s number.

“Hey, Unskippable YouTube Ad, I was just thinking about you.”

Steve laughed. “I could tell. Please don’t call me your bowl of cereal you’ve left out for an hour.”

“That does seem prohibitively long,” Tony agreed, his voice sounding thoughtful.

Steve leaned back against the shade of the house. “So what’s up? Why’re you testing out pet names on me via text?”

“Oh, you know…” 

Steve could practically picture that airy wave Tony used when he was pretending he didn’t care about something. “Tony, that fake nonchalance doesn’t fool anyone.” 

Tony sighed. “I got out of an R&D meeting, and I didn’t have anything else really to do today, so I wanted to see what you were up to.”

Steve smiled, warmed now by more than just the radiant heat coming off the house. “Just at home. Working on the bike.”

“Could I...that is--”

“You want to come hang around in the heat while I install a handlebar switch kit? Tell me how I’m doing everything wrong?” he offered.

“I’m sure you won’t do _everything_ wrong,” Tony said.

“Your vote of confidence is overwhelming,” Steve deadpanned. “Come on over. I have dinner in the slow cooker for after I’m through.”

“You mind if I test fly a new suit?”

Steve sighed. “Is it gonna be conspicuous?”

“No more conspicuous than the Ferrari.”

“As long as it’s not more conspicuous than the Ferrari.”

Tony laughed. “So...can I come over?”

“It’s a date,” Steve agreed.

“Hell yeah it is,” Tony crowed just before the line went dead.

Twenty minutes later, the dull roar of repulsors and flight stabilizers sounded overhead just before Tony set down in what looked like the armor he’d been working on when Steve had gone to the tower after the win over the Giants. Once he’d landed, the dull thunk of metal punctuating the end of the repulsors’ whine, the suit peeled open from the center of the chest and Tony stepped out.

“Well that’s not at all horrifying,” Steve muttered.

“Sentry mode,” Tony said absently to the suit, and it closed back up and took up a ready stance, one palm out as it pivoted gently back and forth.

Steve glanced up at Tony and brushed his now sweaty bangs off his forehead. “You expecting an attack?”

Tony shook his head. “Sentry mode’ll alert me to recording devices too.”

“That’s fancy,” Steve murmured. 

He took his focus off the suit, and finally really looked at Tony. Tony who had clearly come straight from work since he was still in a beautifully tailored three-piece suit with a bright white shirt that made both the smooth grey of his suit and the deep red of his tie snap. Steve almost laughed at the fact that Tony had on sneakers with his suit, but a closer look told Steve they probably cost more than all his bills for the month combined. Tony slipped on a pair of sunglasses with red-tinted lenses now that he wasn’t encased in metal, and made his way over to where Steve was spread out on the back patio. 

“I’m afraid to let you touch anything back here,” he mumbled with another glance at that pristine suit before turning back to his diagram to see where he’d left off.

“Do you have any work clothes I could borrow?” Tony asked as he bent at the waist to peer at the engine Steve had finished since Tony had last come over.

Steve spread the pillowcase from the set of ratty old bedsheets he’d repurposed as drop cloths over the parts he’d laid out and labelled and stood up. “I can probably find you something.”

Upstairs, Tony contented himself with making a circuit of Steve’s bedroom while Steve started digging through his workout clothes to find something that didn’t either look or smell like it belonged in the bin.

“I would like to demand something suitably identifiable as yours,” Tony said without looking up from his perusal of the books on Steve’s nightstand.

Steve rolled his eyes then dropped one of his shirts from the Combine and a pair of Avengers joggers on the bed for him. “You get what’s at the top of the drawer that doesn’t look like I ran through a chipper shredder while I was wearing it.” He pointed at the door to the closet. “There’s empty hangers on the bottom rail so your suit doesn’t get all wrinkled.”

Tony snatched the clothes off the bed and vanished into Steve’s closet with a breezy “thanks for this!”

Steve poked his head around the closet door and watched Tony fiddle with hanging up his shirt, tie, and jacket for a moment. The neat circle of neoprene was covering his pacemaker again, but Steve’s eyes were drawn instead to the scattering of freckles across Tony’s shoulders that he hadn’t noticed before. He smiled at the way Tony frowned down at his tie as he rolled it up to stick in his pants pocket. “I’m gonna head back out. Take your time though.”

Tony nodded absently, but just as Steve turned to leave, his head popped up. “You--you don’t mind that I’ll be in your room by myself?”

“No, why would I?” Steve flashed him a quick smile. “Just don’t move all my stuff six inches to the right.”

“So six inches to the left is okay?” Tony’s voice followed Steve out into the hall.

Laughing, Steve trotted downstairs and stopped to pull a couple waters out of the fridge before he went back outside and carefully uncovered his parts again and started fitting them together. 

“So tell me something,” Steve said without looking up from the diagram he was using as a guide when the backdoor opened and closed.

“What’s that?” Tony came over and started poking around the engine block, not really doing anything, just putting his hands on the hardware.

Steve squinted over at him. “D’you always wear sneakers with your suits?”

Tony shook his head. “Not always. But today was a damn nightmare of meetings and calls and trying to ensure people were going to be able to meet deadlines on deliverables and just...bullshit that all meant I didn’t want to be running around in dress shoes all day.”

“Fair,” Steve murmured to the partially reassembled handlebars in front of him.

“Now you tell me something,” Tony straightened up and drummed his fingers idly against the pacemaker where it sat under his...Steve’s...shirt.

“If I can,” Steve agreed with a small smile.

“Why doesn’t your bike have tires? I could have sworn it did last time I saw it.”

“It did,” Steve agreed as he started remounting the handlebars. “Have you ever seen tires with dry rot?”

Tony nodded. “When I bought the ‘32 roadster, she was an absolute mess. The tires looked like a dried up riverbed. Is that what you had here?”

Steve nodded back. “I took the bike off the lift stand after I’d spent a day just trying to figure out what I was up against, and it slipped and hit the ground hard enough that the back tire just split where the radial meets the sidewall.”

“Holy hell.”

Steve shrugged. “It’s not the end of the world. I didn’t like the all-black tires that much anyway.”

“Cherry red like this deserves whitewalls,” Tony agreed as he reached out to run his hand gently over the cracked paint on the rear wheel fender. 

Steve winked at Tony over the top of the handlebars. “This is why I like you.”

“Not the only reason, I hope,” Tony retorted pertly.

Steve came around the bike and leaned up against the bike seat next to Tony like every high school jock who’d ever tried to make time against the lockers with the head cheerleader. “Not by a long shot.”

Tony slid his arms around Steve’s waist and leaned in to kiss him. “Damn straight.”

Steve sighed into the easy intimacy of their kiss. He hesitated to admit it, but he’d missed Tony, even though they’d really only been out of touch for a day.

“You gonna let me flick your switch?” Tony mumbled against his lips when they parted for air.

Steve blinked and blushed. “Am I what?”

Tony squeezed his waist. “The electricals. Make sure all your connections are good.”

“Oh. Sure.” He let his left hand stay tangled in his shirt on Tony’s body as he pointed to the multimeter laying on the ground next to the lift stand. “If you want to do that, I’ll run in and make us plates.”

Tony smiled up at him. “You are charmingly domestic, d’you know that?”

Steve leaned down and kissed him again. “Flattery will get you everywhere, mister.”

Inside, Steve was in the process of filling bowls from the slow cooker when he heard Sam’s feet on the stairs. He sighed. Sam probably wouldn’t be teasing him about “your girl” for very much longer.

“Something smells good down here.” He rounded the corner. “What’s for dinner and can I have some?”

“Sure. I made way too much.” Steve agreed easily then dug back into the cabinet for another bowl. 

He watched as Sam took in the two already-prepared dishes and the one Steve was making for him, and he watched as the wheels in Sam’s head started turning. “I...did I miss something? Who’s here?”

“It’s--”

“Hey, I put the cover back on the bike and your multimeter’s back in--” Tony stopped short at the sight of Sam. His too-bright camera ready smile snapped into place and after he’d wiped his hands on the rag he’d brought in with him, he held out his hand for Sam to shake. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure. Tony Stark.”

Sam stared straight past Tony to Steve when he reached out to take Tony’s hand. “Sam. Wilson. Steve _didn’t tell me_ you two were friends.”

“I didn’t think he had to,” Tony replied evenly.

Sam held his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, hey, I’m just tryin’ to watch out for my guy.”

Tony blinked at him, imitating confusion. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were his chaperone.”

Steve whirled back from where he’d been digging the salad and dressing out of the fridge and slammed the bowl of salad down on the kitchen counter. “It’s finally cooled off, so _I’m_ gonna go eat on the patio.” He jabbed a fork into his bowl and grabbed the jar of tahini before stalking out the back door and closing it sharply behind him. 

The patio lights had come on as daylight had faded, and now the backyard was lit a soft gold in the gathering darkness, interrupted only by the icy blue glow of the suit’s eyes and chest. Steve kicked his feet up on one of the empty chairs and cradled his dinner in his lap. Iron Man swept its gaze slowly towards him, stared for a moment then moved on. He sighed. Logically, he could understand why both Sam and Tony were snappish, but he’d learned a long time ago that the more people knew a secret, the less likely it would actually _stay_ a secret. 

A quiet knock on the back door glass made him turn around. Tony stood in the doorway, backlit by the light that had been left on in the kitchen. “Can anyone eat out here, or is this the closed-mouth quarterbacks patio?”

Steve pushed the chair he’d had his feet on towards Tony. “Please. I feel like your suit’s glaring at me out here all by myself.”

Tony pulled the other chair up next to Steve “So what is this?” he asked as he started poking his fork through the chicken, vegetables, and rice in his bowl.

“Shawarma bowl,” Steve answered around a mouthful of food. He pushed the jar he’d brought out with him towards Tony. “Put that on it. It’ll change your life.”

“I don’t think I actually know what shawarma is,” Tony admitted as he glanced at Steve’s dinner then dabbed some of the tahini on his own food, imitating Steve. “It looks really good though.”

Steve shrugged. “It’s...it usually comes as a wrap, but I like it this way better.” 

He ate a few more bites while he watched Tony still just picking at his dinner. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Tony’s sigh sounded like Steve was both preciously innocent and simultaneously the trial of his life. “What are we doing here?”

“I don’t think eating dinner is the answer you’re looking for,” Steve said.

“Not really, no,” Tony agreed. “Why didn’t Sam know why I was here?”

Steve frowned down at his empty bowl, unsure how to explain the convoluted mess his brain turned into whenever he tried to reason through being in any way out as a professional football player. Bucky’s easy acceptance wouldn’t be even remotely close to the norm, he knew, and the thought of opening up to anyone else, of opening himself up to anyone else, filled him with a cloying, creeping dread. Still, he owed Tony as much honesty as he could give him even if he wasn’t confident he’d even be able to articulate what he wanted.

“I want…” He started, but almost immediately trailed off and sighed, stuck. 

Tony slipped Steve’s hands out from around his empty dish. “Come here. Come sit on this stupidly idyllic porch swing with me.” He manhandled Steve up and onto the swing, before collapsing on top of him back to front, pinning Steve with his own weight.

Steve settled Tony down in the vee of his legs, but let one of his legs dangle free so he could use his toes to set them swinging gently. He’d laughed when his mom had found this thing on sale at Lowe’s, and the two of them had had a hell of a time assembling it. It was practically a daybed hanging between the sturdy beams of the A-frame support, but once they’d gotten it together, Steve practically took up residence, drawing, listening to music, reading, or just daydreaming while he’d push himself slowly with the one foot he’d dangle over the edge.

“50 percent power,” Tony murmured, and the suit’s eyes and chest dimmed and its sweep of the area slowed. “Let’s start with an easy one...do you like spending time with me?”

Steve nodded. He really did. “I’m not...I don’t worry about saying or doing the wrong thing with you. It’s easy.”

Tony’s hum of acknowledgement reverberated through his chest. “That’s good, that’s good--”

“I’m not embarrassed of you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Steve told the firefly that had landed on Tony’s knee.

He felt Tony relax on top of him. 

“It’s...not being straight in pro sports just--you just _aren’t_.” He tried to explain. “Everybody’s straight.”

“Well, clearly not,” Tony said and rocked his head back to look at him upside down.

Steve rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. The NFL _claimed_ it was ready when Michael Sam entered the draft…”

“But it turned out they weren’t as enlightened as they all said they were,” Tony finished.

Steve nodded miserably. “And you know it’s bad if there’s been talk of people coming out in a group to ‘share the backlash.’ Why should there be _any_ backlash? Who’s the fuck business should it be who I’m sleeping with?”

Tony laughed mirthlessly. “And of course Saint Goodell _swears_ the league has no truck with sexual orientation discrimination.”

“He can swear all he wants, but it’s actions in the locker room and on the field that matter,” Steve said.

“That’s very true. There’s a reason we didn’t sign Incognito after he came off his suspension. Nick promised me he didn’t need linemen that badly.” Steve pushed them for a while in silence before Tony patted his leg to get his attention. “But back to you. I know you don’t think that poorly of Sam. He seems like a real stand-up kinda guy.”

“Of course he is.” Steve agreed readily. He dragged his fingers through Tony’s hair, letting the soft slide of his fingers settle them both while he tried to figure out what he wanted to say. “You know the saying ‘three can keep a secret if two of them are dead’?”

“Morbid, but yes.”

“Bucky already knows. He figured it out back in July. One look at us when you met me in the park after the rundown and he just knew. Which, okay. I didn’t set out to show him that way or anything, but when he asked me outright, I couldn’t just lie. And Sam’s always asked me the kinds of questions I could…”

Lie through omission?” Tony finished.

Steve nodded. “And that’s a terrible way to treat a friend. It really is, but tonight when I could see Sam trying to put it together, I just--”

“Felt like your private business was slipping out of your grasp?”

“Exactly.” Tony rolled over and faced Steve, making him smile sadly. “And I don’t want to hide from people I consider my friends. I don’t. But I can’t--I _can’t_ lose control of this. Not just for my sake.”

Steve ran his hands through Tony’s hair again, and Tony hummed with pleasure at the feel of Steve’s short, blunt nails where they scraped along his scalp. “I know I said the first time I kissed you that discretion was the better part of valor--”

Steve nodded.

“And I’m sticking to that,” he promised. “But I want you to think... _really think_ about if there might come a time when you’re willing to be that guy.”

“Which guy?” Steve asked blankly.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Don’t be obtuse, it doesn’t suit you.” He propped his chin on top of his hands folded across Steve’s chest. “The guy who...who’s willing to show people that the five in any locker room’s a real thing.”

Steve dug his thumbs into the back of Tony’s neck in a tiny massage and let out the bubble of laughter that wanted to slip free. He felt more steady now that he’d been able to get Tony to at least see the edges of the snarl in his head. “How do you know about the five in any locker room?” he asked.

“Please.” He could hear the answering laugh in Tony’s voice. “I own a football team.”

Tony rolled back over, and Steve kept pushing them slowly with his foot as they settled into a hazy calm, lulled by the occasional chirp of an insect and the slow rock of the swing. “Will you tell me something unedited?” Steve murmured.

“Anything in particular?” Tony asked softly.

Steve reached out and tapped the glass at the center of Tony’s chest. “This thing in your chest isn’t just a pacemaker, is it?”

Tony shook his head. “It’s a miniaturized arc reactor.”

“A what?” Steve asked, baffled.

“It’s a fancy electromagnet that keeps some shrapnel from killing me.”

“From your time in Afghanistan?” Steve guessed.

Tony nodded.

“Now that you’re home, can’t they remove the shrapnel?”

“Not anymore,” Tony said. “Even if they could remove it, there’s too much scarring on my heart and my lungs have been permanently altered. I never realized how tightly packed and finely tuned the human torso is until I had to jam a cylinder through my breastbone.”

Steve grimaced at that image, but Tony just chuckled softly. “It lets me power the suit, so who am I to complain, really.”

“Will you tell me something unedited?” Tony parroted back after they’d been swaying for a bit in silence.

“Of course,” Steve agreed.

“What was it like to win a national title?”

Steve’s laugh was a little shaky, but he didn’t try to stop the tears that gathered at the corners of his eyes. “Awful.”

“Why? You looked so happy in all the post game coverage.”

“D’you know how lonely it is to be on the number one team in the nation and not have anyone in the stands for you?” He took an unsteady breath. “That was the first season my mom wasn’t there to see me play. And every single one of those thirteen wins, I felt _so_ alone, but the worst, the absolute hardest thing, was hoisting that trophy and knowing she wouldn’t see me and getting my ring and having no one to show it to.”

Tony settled heavier against his chest, pinning him down. “Don’t you _ever_ think you’re alone in a stadium with me,” he said fiercely. “Okay?”

Steve nodded then swiped at his eyes. “Will you tell me something else?” he asked, in an effort to shift focus back off himself.

“Sure,” Tony agreed easily. He resettled a little lower on Steve’s chest so he could lay on his side. 

“Why Iron Man?”

“Why not?” Tony asked flippantly.

Steve poked him in the sides, making Tony jump and laugh. “You know what I mean. You don’t do anything just because.”

“It’s complicated,” he said after a bit. “I started the Mark 2 largely as a vanity project. Just to see if I could do it. But I wanted to maybe be able to do some good too. It just kind of spiraled from there. I’m a tinkerer. There’s always _something_ to improve. Plus, it feels good to help people.”

“And look at you now,” Steve murmured. “Doin’ good left right and center.”

“You think?” Tony asked.

“What you do with the suit’s not classified. Not since you just told the whole world, ‘I am Iron Man’ then mouthed off to Congress about how you’d made world peace a one-man show. What you’re trying to do with this team tends to be pretty big news too.” Steve laughed. “I can see you, Tony Stark.”

A soft chime from Steve’s pocket made Tony sit up. “Text from your other date?”

Steve shook his head as he silenced his alarm. “I’m a terrible multitasker. No, it’s time for me to start getting ready for bed.”

“Oh.” Tony got up. “I guess I’d better--”

Steve caught his wrist and made him stop. “Your commute’s pretty quick in that suit, right?”

Tony nodded slowly. “I make sure to stay low enough that I don’t have to file flight plans. Why?”

“I know this isn’t exactly a Midtown penthouse, but…” Steve used the pretense of gathering up their dirty dishes to avoid having to meet Tony’s eye. “I have a spare toothbrush in my medicine cabinet.”

“Are you…” Tony slid his hands into the front pockets of Steve’s pants from behind. “Are you asking me to spend the night?”

Steve grinned over his shoulder at Tony’s delighted face. “And if I am?” 

“Not saying no, but I do have a 7AM meeting.” 

“I have a 7AM strength workout,” Steve countered.

“Can I leave my suit in your library?”

Steve nodded. “I’ll leave a desk lamp on so it doesn’t scare the bejesus out of whoever gets up first.”

Tony walked back over to the suit, and it peeled open again to allow him to step back in. Once it closed around him, he clomped after Steve back into the house and went to leave the armor in the library while Steve started loading the dishwasher.

“Steve?” Sam’s quiet voice from the kitchen door made him jump just a little.

“Sam.” Steve took a breath. “I owe you an apology. I--I shouldn’t have misled you about Tony, and I’m sorry.”

“And here I was all set to apologize to you,” Sam said as he sidled up to lean on the counter while Steve tidied. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, but I did. I’m sorry.”

Steve stopped where he was wiping down the countertop to give Sam his full attention. “I put you in that position, though, which wasn’t fair to you.”

Sam laid his hand on Steve’s arm, stilling him. “You and I both know what this game and this league does to people. I pushed too hard for something you weren’t ready to share, and that’s on me.” He eyeballed Steve, something else clearly on the tip of his tongue.

“Just tell me?” Steve asked.

“That man cares about you. A lot,” Sam said.

“But…?”

He rolled his eyes. “But, I can see the ways you two make each other stupid.” He wrapped an arm around Steve and squeezed his shoulders. “Just be careful.”

“He wouldn’t--”

Sam laughed softly. “I mean other people.” He squeezed Steve’s shoulders one more time. “I’m going to bed. Don’t wake me up with any noises I can’t unhear or I’ll make sure Cage takes it out on you in the weightroom tomorrow.”

“I absolutely promise we’ll be quiet,” Steve vowed at Sam’s retreating back.

“Why are we being quiet?” Tony poked his head out the library door as Steve turned to finish locking up.

Steve draped his arm around Tony’s shoulders and tugged him in close. “Sam’s gonna sic Cage on me if we wake him up.”

Tony mimed zipping his lips as they made their way upstairs, and Steve laughed.

In his bedroom, Steve didn’t bother to turn on any lights, letting the glow from the streetlamp across the street bathe the bedroom in amber shadows as he got ready for bed. Just like in his own home, Tony didn’t stand on any sort of ceremony as he stripped off Steve’s clothes and left them on the Clothes Chair next to the closet before he dove into the unused side of the bed in only his underwear. Steve followed a moment later, grinning when Tony weaseled as close as he could get in the circle of Steve’s arms.

“I’m glad you came over today,” Steve murmured. “I had a good time.”

Tony popped up on his elbows and blinked down at him. “Even with all the…” he waved his hand to indicate how their evening had played out.

“Even that,” Steve agreed. He smiled as Tony rolled down onto his shoulder and threw an arm across his waist. “It’s funny,” he murmured, “I’ve spent my whole life worried about what ‘everyone else’ would think of me if they found out I wasn’t--was bi.”

“But it turns out Dr. Seuss might actually be right,” Tony said.

“How so?” Steve asked, his voice already going fuzzy with sleep.

“Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind,” Tony quoted.

Steve smiled and tugged Tony closer. “You’re just full’a good advice.”

“Hmm?” Tony hummed, but Steve didn’t answer, already asleep. His slow, even breathing eventually lulling Tony down too.

However, in the rush of getting ready the next morning, Steve didn’t notice which clothes Tony threw on until the Iron Man suit was closing around his body. 

“Those’re...my clothes,” he said to the empty backyard. 

“Look on the bright side,” Sam said as they piled into his car to head into practice.

“There’s a bright side?”

“Sure.” Sam nodded. “He’s gotta come over and see you and your bike again to get that fancy-ass suit back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kind comments and kudos. They brighten my day whenever I see them in my inbox. Feel free to come flail about sports, Marvel, or sporty Marvel over on my tumblar (longhornletters).


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Polio: An American Story_ by David Oshinsky is a really interesting look at the panic over polio that swept America during the 1940s and 1950s, up to and including Salk’s life saving vaccine. It’s a fascinating read, and I highly recommend both it and everything else Professor Oshinsky has written.
> 
> My one big cave to self-indulgence is the way Bucky thinks about his female fans. I am exhausted by the way people (mostly men, but not always) talk about female sports fans. That they’re only fans of the good looking players and don’t really know the game. That’s some bullshit.
> 
> In the fumble, refs can’t call what they don’t see, and pretty much anything goes at the bottom of those turnover piles. Yes, that includes biting.
> 
> HUGE thanks as always to betheflame and kestrel337 for tireless cheer, beta, and, to quote Bertie Wooster "just general thing-ness." You two are amazing.

Fury dismissed the team from their final meeting on Friday with “Remember, away games are opportunities to show another market who we are.” while Peter Parker scuttled up and down the rows passing out hard copies of travel itineraries and packing reminders.

“Buy you gentlemen dinner?” Bucky asked sidling up to where Steve and Sam were gathering their things.

“Cafeteria?” Steve asked.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Of course. I’m not out to spend any  _ money _ on you, punk.”

“Nice to know where I stand, jerk,” Steve said with a laugh as Bucky started guiding him down the hall with an arm around his neck.

“Got room for a couple more?” Clint asked, falling in step with Bucky and pointing at himself and Scott.

“Not sure,” Bucky said. “Do you have anything  _ special _ to be doing?”

“Oh ha fucking ha,” Clint said. “You know as well as I do that my last meeting today was before the whole-group sit-down.”

Plates in hand, they shoved a couple tables together and crowded around them. Once they’d taken the edge off, Sam slapped Dugan’s arm. “So, you got any road trip advice?”

“It’s not actually that different than a college away game,” Dum Dum said. “We’ll spend most of our time traveling, at the hotel, or at the stadium.”

“Come to practice tomorrow packed and ready to go,” Clint added. “My first roadie as a rookie I didn’t, and I had to wear the same clothes for a whole weekend.”

Dugan snorted into his drink. “You would.”

“Oh like you know all the tricks?” Clint asked, his eyebrows approaching his hairline. “I’m sure the Howlies call you Dum Dum for a reason, don’t they?”

Dugan pulled a root beer Dum Dum lollipop out of his bag and stuck it in his mouth. “Please, ask that again.”

“Anyway,” Bucky cut their bickering off. “Travel in something that looks good on you but wears easy. Same with your suit for going to the stadium. You’ll end up on like ten Instagram feeds apart from ours, not to mention Twitter, so you don’t wanna be walkin’ around in wrinkled clothes.”

“Seriously?” Steve grimaced.

Bucky nodded. “Coverage for road trips can be intense. We’re going into someone else’s territory, so Sharon and her crew always want us to look, talk, and act killer from start to finish. Plus, this is where a lot of those fan thirst tweets come from.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for thirst tweets,” Steve muttered.

Bucky shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if you’re ready. They’re out there. Someone out there’s got one for me and their handle is ‘Backfield Asset.’ Emphasis very clearly on ass.”

“Don’t worry about all that bullshit though,” Dum Dum said, waving Bucky off. “You’re just there to focus on the game.”

“Indeed. Your primary concern is meant to be the actual game,” Thor stopped at their tables to add his two cents. “Even though attending to these trappings does allow the team to appear as a unit from the time we leave our complex until we return home.”

“Exactly,” Dum Dum said with a pointed nod at Thor.

“You headed out?” Bucky asked Thor.

“Not quite yet. I have a question for one of the young ladies in analytics,” he answered before continuing back towards the office side of the complex.

“I bet I know which one too,” Sam said, waggling his eyebrows.

“Oh, you do not,” Bucky denied.

“Do too,” Sam asserted confidently. “It’s Jane Foster.”

Steve shot him a disbelieving look. “Really?”

“Don’t play dumb, Rogers. You and I both saw him after the morning offensive meeting on Wednesday,” he said, nodding. “Miss Foster, could you explain these blocking statistics for me further? Miss Foster, I wish to maximize Steve’s time in the pocket, how best can I do that?”

“Sounds like he’s gonna need Hill and Carter’s training on how to date and not make an ass of yourself,” Scott said, grinning.

“And on that note, Sam, are you ready to head out?” Steve asked as he stood to clear his place.

“Yep,” Sam agreed and stood.

“Hey, whoa, no, you cannot drop a bombshell like that and just walk out,” Bucky complained. “We haven’t had anything juicy like a player shooting his shot at a front office type since Tony bought the club.”

Sam turned around and started walking backwards towards the bussing window. “Watch me, Backfield  _ Ass _ et.”

“Shouldn’t’a said anything,” Bucky muttered at their retreating backs.

Sam elbowed him as they crossed the parking lot towards the Accord. “You gonna pack when we get home?”

Steve nodded. “We’ve got a 7AM report time tomorrow. I know I’ll be stupid and forget something if I do it in the morning.”

Back home, they parted ways to get themselves sorted, but once Steve had pulled down his suitcase and thrown in his personal game gear and the toiletry bag he always kept pre-packed for away games, he stopped, unsure. Bucky’s words about appearing on multiple Instagram and Twitter feeds made him suddenly self-conscious about all the clothing he owned. His teammates at Texas had accused him on more than one occasion of dressing like their dads on a Father’s Day brunch outing when they traveled, and while it was one thing to hear that from people he knew, it was completely different to hear it from strangers on the internet.

“What’re you wearing?” Steve hollered up the stairs after he’d been staring at his half-packed road trip bag for a, frankly, embarrassing stretch of time. 

A pointed silence met his question. “Um...don’t you have an actual boyfriend you can ask these kinds of skanky questions?” Sam finally asked.

“Not like that, you weirdo. I meant for the trip.” He rolled his eyes down at his half-packed suitcase.

The sound of his feet on the stairs indicated Sam planned on coming to offer some more substantive help. “Didn’t Fury say business casual for the flights and suits for stadium arrival,” he said as his head poked around the door.

Steve offered him a tired smile. “Yeah, but Bucky’s thing about Instagram’s got me all twisted up on myself.”

Sam collapsed on Steve’s bed next to his bag. “Don’t wear your black suit. Makes you look like you’re on your way to a funeral. Or Lurch.”

“Yes, Mr. Wilson,” Steve rumbled and he stalked stiffly towards the closet to retrieve the blue suit Natasha had taken him out to buy ahead of preseason starting, citing similar reasons, while Sam just laughed behind him.

In the closet, he couldn’t help running his fingers across grey wool so fine it felt like silk before reaching to tug his a slip of paper and his phone out of his pocket. He slipped the picture of the pill-shaped iron man with its visor up showing a cartoon version of Tony’s face that he’d doodled during the defense portion of the afternoon meeting into the breast pocket of Tony’s suit. He stepped back and snapped a picture of the drawing before tucking it into the inner pocket with the other doodles he’d drawn earlier in the week.

> _ Tom still misses you. x _

“What exactly is business casual?” Steve asked. He reemerged and hung his suit on the back of the closet door then tucked a rolled up tie into the pants pocket.

Sam shrugged. “I don’t think anyone really knows. I think it’s really code for ‘don’t show up in gym clothes or pajamas.’”

“What’d you decide it means?” Steve pressed. His phone vibrated with Tony’s reply, and he had to physically stop himself from looking at it immediately like a lovesick teenager.

“Trousers and a button-down.”

Steve nodded. “I can do that.”

“Can I ask you something?” Sam asked while Steve continued trying to solve his clothes problem.

“Sure,” he said as he came and folded travel clothes into his bag then went to grab his suit.

“Am I the only person who knows about you shooting your shot with Tony?”

Steve sighed.

“Because Bucky’s not wrong, Thor trying to flirt with Jane Foster in Analytics is a big deal, but it’s fucking nothing compared to hooking up with the actual owner,” he said.

Steve sat down on the bed next to Sam’s knee. “Not just hooking up. And Bucky figured it out a little bit ago. He swore he’d be discreet.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You do realize that guy’s about as discreet as a rocket launcher, right?”

“I have no reason not to trust him,” Steve said with a sad smile. “Besides, if I can’t, it’s too late now.”

“Also,” Sam sat up, “can we go back to the part where you’re not  _ just _ hooking up with Tony? Are you two getting serious?”

Steve flushed, quietly happy when he thought about signing NDAs over a medically necessary arc reactor and laying in the swing with Tony, actually  _ talking _ . “Yeah, I think we are. Or, I’d like to be, at any rate.”

Sam tackled Steve sideways, laughing like a lunatic. “Stevie’s got a boyfriend!”

“Ow! I don’t have a helmet on!” Steve protested when he banged his head on the edge of his still open suitcase, but he was laughing too. He shoved lazily at Sam’s shoulder where it was digging into his chest. “Don’t you need to be packing too?”

“Already done,” Sam bragged. He dug his shoulder in gently one more time before he sat back and let Steve sit up. “I’m gonna go read for a while then hit the sack.” He got up and patted Steve’s shoulder. “Goodnight, man.”

Once Sam disappeared back upstairs, Steve threw a final few things in his bag and finished getting ready for bed, but after he got settled under the covers, instead of picking up the book on polio he’d been reading for the past week, he pulled out his phone.

> _ Is this proof of life? _ 😜

Steve laughed. Trust Tony to talk like he hadn’t literally flown off in Steve’s clothes.

> _ Yeah. I figure this would work since we don’t get the paper. _
> 
> _ ALSO, let’s be clear on who stole clothes here. If anyone should be demanding proof of life, it’s me. _

When Tony hadn’t responded in the time it took Steve to read the away game media reminder email Sharon had sent them, he turned off his phone and murmured, “work tomorrow” as he burrowed down for the night.

~~*~~

“So explain again what happened?” Sam asked during the tail end of their final walkthrough Saturday morning. “You asked for what?”

“ _ Nothing _ ,” Steve tried to deflect as he had all morning. 

“Nah, spit it out,” Volstagg said. He flipped the ball over in his hands. “I can hold this up and get us all in trouble.”

“Line it up,” Steve said, trying desperately to regain control of his own life. Everyone lined up except Sam and Volstagg and Bucky. He rolled his eyes at them. “Fine.”

“Spill,” Sam said.

“Proof of life,” Steve finally answered as he took the snap from Volstagg and dropped back at a leisurely jog.

“Which is what now?” Thor asked as Dum Dum and Morita gently elbowed through the line to simulate pocket collapse.

Steve sped through his progression and released a little mid-range dump to Scott who had managed to shake Bucky off out in the flat. Except, Bucky was apparently just laying off the throw, and he came in and tangled with Scott for the ball. Scott came away with it, but only just. 

“Sounds to me like he wants pictures in whatever clothes of his got ‘borrowed,’” Hopkins offered at a distressingly loud volume from the end of his route.

“Is this one of those ‘oooh, babe, I love to see you in my clothes’ kind of things?” Morita butted in and clapped his hands on Steve’s shoulders to indicate a post-throw tackle.

“See that’s what I’m thinkin’,” Bucky agreed. 

“Gentlemen, a little focus, please,” Fury snapped.

Thankfully, they let him be for the rest of the walkthrough, the team meeting, and even the bus ride to the airstrip at Newark Liberty where the team’s pair of private planes were waiting. A surprisingly significant contingent of fans had turned up outside the practice complex to see them onto the buses, including a few in what looked like real firemen’s helmets painted and decorated to support the Avengers.

“James! James!” A group of female fans all wearing Bucky’s jersey stood grouped together and they immediately started giggling when he looked over and flashed them a devastating smile. One of them had the wherewithal to snap his picture before asking if he’d take a selfie with them.

“Oooh, James!” Monty collapsed across Bucky’s legs once they were on the bus. “You’re so manly, James.”

“Don’t tease ‘em,” Bucky scolded and shoved him off. “Ladies get enough’a that shit without us piling on.”

By the time they actually made it to the airport and boarded, Steve had convinced himself that Bucky was actually going to let it lie. Once they reached you may now use approved electronic devices thousand feet, Steve had his headphones mostly to his ears when Bucky sliding into the seat next to him stopped him.

“I’m pretty sure all my favorite pictures I’ve gotten from exes back when we were together were of them in my shirts and not much else.”

Steve rolled his eyes.

Bucky grinned. “I’m just sayin’.” 

“I really just want my clothes back,” Steve groused.

“Sure, but you can have a little fun while you wait,” Bucky said.

Steve gave him a flat look.

Bucky tugged his personal tablet out of his carryon. “Netflix?” he said, a peace offering.

Steve took the earbud Bucky was holding out to him. “Nothing gross.”

“Nothing gross,” he agreed. “Extreme Engineering okay?” At Steve’s nod, he tapped on it. “I love the future,” he murmured under the intro music.

As it happened, Steve was not nearly as enamored with feats of large-scale engineering as Bucky was. A few minutes into the first episode, he tugged his sketchbook and pencil case out of his own backpack. While Danny Forster explained how three towers could support a three acre park on top of them, Steve started on a drawing of the Iron Man briefcase armor. He tapped and swiped at his phone until he found a high quality GIF someone had made from ESPN’s coverage of the Monaco Grand Prix with Tony halfway into the armor, arms extended as the plating rippled closed around him.

“Little obsessed?” Bucky asked quietly as he watched Steve fiddle with the half-closed scales of the chest panel.

“It’s engineering,” he said with a smirk and added some wires twisting down Tony’s not-yet-encased arm.

“How d’you think he runs it?” Bucky asked, pausing the show and leaning over to watch Steve draw. “I mean, there’s not a lot of empty space in that thing.”

“He told me he’s got a gerbil who runs in a wheel that’s housed behind the circle in his chest,” Steve said. He started adding the edges of destroyed Formula 1 cars as a bit of setting and background.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “He does not.”

“Does too,” Steve answered distractedly. He finished adding in some grey puddles of spilled gasoline then looked up and fixed Bucky with his most innocent expression. “It used to be coal-powered, but he’s all about clean energy.” 

“How would a coal-powered suit even work?” Bucky asked, laughing.

Steve shrugged and added a caption in the new style of calligraphy the stationers near the house had in their window. “Tiny men shoveling it into a tiny furnace? You’d have to ask him. I only have a graphic design degree, so the details escape me.”

“Oh, yeah, only,” Bucky agreed.

“Remind me what your degree is again?” Steve asked mildly.

“Applied mathematics.”

Steve raised an eyebrow at him. “My point exactly.”

The ping of the fasten seatbelt sign along with the tightening in his ears indicated they were descending into Atlanta, so Bucky shut down his tablet and Steve closed up his sketchbook.

~~*~~

_ Away games present unique challenges for every team, but for a rookie quarterback, starting without the guidance of a mentor, those challenges can multiply exponentially. With all signs pointing to Fitzgerald not playing because of a nagging knee issue, Rogers will be stepping into the Avenger playrunner’s shoes and making the start for this afternoon’s preseason matchup with the Atlanta Falcons. With a Falcons team in year two of their rebuild, they’re looking to make a splash against a team on the rise. So, the question on every Avenger fan’s mind is this: will Steve Rogers live up to the enormous expectations placed on him as a first-round draft pick and as the heir apparent as the face of the franchise. _

The one thing Atlanta could successfully consider rebuilt, Steve decided as he hustled off the field midway the first quarter to give way for Clint and the field goal unit to try to get them on the board, was their defense. They’d had to scrape and fight for every stinking yard to get into Clint’s range, and after a third-and-six incompletion thanks to stifling coverage on both him and the receivers, any payoff was going to come from Clint’s leg. 

“Steve, Steve, Steve,” Carol Danvers reeled him in by the arm and held out the StarkPad she’d been fiddling with. ”Come take a seat with me for a second.” She sat him down and passed over the tablet. “Look at what’s going on here with the coverage patterns. Strucker’s relying on a misdirect every single time he tries to rush you. He tries to lure Thor out of position every time it looks even remotely like you’re gonna pass the ball.” 

“How do I--”

“ _ You _ don’t,” she reminded him. “ _ He _ needs to take responsibility for staying on his block.” She nodded over to where the entire offensive line was gathered around the line coach receiving, probably, that exact instruction. Especially if the way Thor’s frowning nod at his coach then his glance over at Steve were any indication.

Steve nodded. Every coach he’d ever had had told him at some point that it wasn’t his job to do everyone else’s too, and it was no different here. “What else have you got for me?”

Not a lot that stuck, as it turned out. Atlanta had come into this game loaded for bear, wanting to either put paid to talk about them still rebuilding or to put the hurt on a team with a lot of positive buzz, Steve couldn’t really figure out, but by halftime, they were down 6-10. 

“Man, Karpov’s sure been changing some shit up,” Bucky said as he and the rest of the defense slammed into the locker room at halftime. “Where’d he find this Zemo asshole? That guy feels like he’s got answers for everything we’re doin’ out there.”

“He’s been Brady’s backup for forever,” Dernier said. “He musta’ been a free agent, and everyone knew Schaub was set to retire, so I guess he saw this as his chance to come out of Brady’s shadow.”

“Shoulda stayed there,” Bucky snapped. 

Fury rapped his knuckles against the table under the whiteboard to get their attention. “You can want Zemo back in New England all you want, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s here. So the question should be, what are we gonna do about it? You’ve got five minutes to get with your unit and talk adjustments.”

Carol came over and bodily dragged Steve and Fitz into a corner of the locker room near the rest of the offense, but still off to the side. “Steve, you and I talked about Strucker’s misdirects after the first drive, but Fitz, help me out, what’re you seeing?”

Fitz flipped the cover off the tablet he and Steve had been sharing on the sideline, and pulled up one of the few plays that had felt easy. “Go back to this well,” he said, tapping the screen and letting the play roll forward at half speed. “Look here. You went to the opposite side of the field, just cut Strucker out of your progression completely. That was smart because he commits himself to his fancy-shmancy fake-out way too hard, so if you just trust the line to handle him, which they can, and go to the other side of the field, his bullshit ceases to matter.”

Steve scrolled until he pulled up a run play that had netted them some significant yardage. “This felt like an accident, but we got a good result. How should I--”

Fitz grinned. “You’re right. This is another good place for a repeat. T’Challa’s got some feet on him. Just give him the ball and let him do his thing. He and M’Baku played in Oakland together for a few years, so he knows how to make the kind of holes that don’t look like holes that T’Challa can squeeze through.”

“Short screens and shovel passes,” T’Challa chimed in as he slid onto the bench on Steve’s free side. “The Falcons are fans of the big play. The flashy tackle. If we play our game, focus on fundamental lunchpail plays, they cannot force us into dramatic mistakes.”

Carol closed the cover on her tablet then grabbed Steve by the neck of his jersey and shook him gently. “We’re only down by four. We’re getting the ball to start the half, so you can get us out of the gate on the right foot. You’re competent and in control of this offense. Do you hear me?”

Steve nodded. T’Challa was right. They needed to play their game, not get suckered into playing Karpov and the Falcons’.

“Then let’s go out there and show ‘em what we’re made of,” Danvers ordered.

Fifteen football minutes later, standing in a whole-team huddle for the quarter break, Steve couldn’t help but scowl up at the score on the jumbotron. The Falcons’ lead had grown to eight after they’d tacked on an early touchdown and Steve had only been able to get them into range for yet another field goal.

“Hey, look the fuck at me,” Fitz said and grabbed Steve by the facemask to make him look at him while Fury spoke to the defense. “You’re punching holes. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you are moving the ball. “The Howlies are one down away from a three and out. You trust them to get that done?”

Steve nodded.

“They trust you to get out there after ‘em and make the right calls.” Fitz released Steve’s facemask and slapped the A’s on the side of his helmet. “You can do this, rookie.”

“You think they can hold ‘em?” Steve asked T’Challa when he materialized at Steve’s side.

He nodded. “I do. Especially since they’re going to try for a big play and the Howlies are ready.” Zemo snapped the ball. “Watch. Monty’s got a read on the receiver Zemo leans on way too heavily.”

When Zemo released his throw, Steve watched Monty track the throw in the receiver’s head movement, and at the last moment, he turned and swatted down the ball. The rest of the Howlies rushed to surround Monty and they all threw back their heads and howled.

“Thank God,” Steve muttered. He shot T’Challa a sideways look. “So, lunchpail offense?”

“We’re getting looks in with it,” he reminded him as they grabbed their helmets.

This drive felt different right from the first snap. Two downs on the ground netted them fifteen quick yards, and between plays the Falcons secondary finally started looking a bit gassed. They crossed midfield on the third set of downs, but the defense once again figured out a way to stiffen. Third-and-six at the Falcon’s 37 felt crushingly familiar as they huddled up so Steve could relay the call from the booth.

Just like the last few drives, the coordinator demanded a pass play. Just like the last few drives, the Falcons read the routes better than Steve would have liked. Unlike the last few drives, though, when Strucker and List broke through the line, Steve saw enough daylight between M’Baku and Volstagg that he tucked the ball and ran for the hole. He squeezed between his two linemen and sprinted for the line to gain. The trick with a quarterback keep, he reminded himself as he ran, was not to start his slide too early.

“Give up! Give up!” Sam started hollering as Steve crossed the 30.

He slid across the 30 like a baseball player stealing second, then tossed the ball to the back judge while the head ref signalled for the chains to move.

“Get up and keep us moving,” Sam commanded as he helped Steve to his feet. “That endzone is so damn close I can taste it.”

“Excellent slide,” T’Challa said with a quiet hand on Steve’s wrist. “You timed that very well.”

“Thanks,” Steve said with a small nod. His insides still felt a little fluttery, a bit like when he’d narrowly escape a sack, but they were now closer to the red zone than they had been nearly all game, and Sam was right. He could practically taste a touchdown.

“I wish they’d just...let us in,” Steve griped a handful of plays later when they were finally down to the seven after grinding out twenty three more yards.

“Nothing worth having is ever easy,” Hopkins said.

“Did you get that out of a fortune cookie?” Thor asked over his shoulder with a grin.

“Don’t worry about me and mind your block,” Hopkins shot back with a smile of his own.

“Alright, alright, let’s push this over the line,” Steve said, drawing them back to the task at hand.

One of the things that alternately frustrated and delighted Steve was that sometimes in football, the thing he wanted just... _ happened _ . After a sixty-plus yard grind where they’d had to fight for every inch of turf, as soon as he took the snap, he could see the miscue in the defensive secondary. An assignment got dropped, leaving T’Challa with a wide open hole at the end of his screen route. He tossed him what was easily his most uncomplicated throw of the afternoon, and T’Challa caught it and scampered straight into the endzone.

The feeling of racking up a whole touchdown made Steve want to weep with relief, but he settled instead for a high five and traded slaps to the helmet from the steadiest running back he’d worked with in his entire time in the game. 

“God, finally,” Clint said as he and the special teams unit traded places with the offense. 

“Well look at you,” Bucky said, grinning like a maniac, when Steve made it to the sideline. “Finally punched one in.”

“Jesus no kidding,” Steve grumbled. “Still down by one though,” he added as Clint’s PAT sailed through the uprights.

“It’ll be fine,” Bucky waved him off. “We’ve still got like five minutes.”

Steve laughed. “So forever in football time.”

By the time they got all the way down to the two-minute warning, both defenses had stiffened up again, and neither offense was going anywhere quickly. 

Fury came to loom over where Steve and Carol were perched on a bench reviewing the highs and lows of the previous drive. “I want to try something,” he said when they looked up. “I want T’Challa to sit this drive out and I want to put Quill in. I’m on the fence about him, and since I’m going to have to move some personnel around to bring in another linebacker--”

“Yep, got it,” Carol nodded. Once Fury walked away, Danvers turned to Steve. “I know he’s been really...inconsistent...in practice, but Fury needs to see him in a game to really know if he can settle in and be worth the time investment.”

Steve nodded. There’d been an H-back at Texas his first year starting who’d been like that. Extremes in practice, but something about gameday really settled him out. Drove Phillips crazy. 

This drive turned into another arduous grind, but as Steve slowly inched them down the field and the clock bled away, he started to think they might actually be able to pull off a win. A sharp catch-and-run to Scott followed by one of the few mid-range passes he’d had time for to Sam dragged them down inside the 10 for the second time today. Peter Quill, in a run that involved a spin off one defender and a neat sidestep of another got them into the endzone for the second time and their first lead of the game. Fury immediately started signalling for a two-point conversion. 

“Quill,” Steve met his eye in the huddle. “This is gonna be a design run play. Primary route is between the left tackle and the left guard. Secondary is to the right, tertiary is an end around. Just get it in. No muss, no fuss.”

The logic, Steve acknowledged, behind using a run play for a two-point conversion lay in the lowered likelihood that they would lose the ball. That logic had apparently never encountered Peter Quill. After a clean handoff, Quill was almost through the line when the ball popped out. 

Thor and Volstagg both dived for the loose ball, but so did List and Hodge. Two of Volstagg’s fingers slipped between the bars of Hodge’s facemask when he dove for the ball, but he quickly yanked them back.

“Motherfucker  _ bit _ me!” He cried.

By the time the refs had unpeeled everyone from the pile, Gilmore Hodge was curled around that ball like it was a live grenade. Steve groaned as the refs signalled the turnover.

“We can do anything for 15 seconds,” Bucky promised when the defense broke their huddle to head for the field. “Especially if they’re trapped on the two.”

Fifteen seconds meant that Bucky and the rest of the Howlies only had to break up two throws, both of which were wildly underthrown. As both teams swarmed the field, shaking hands and offering words of congratulations on a tough game well played, Steve was pleasantly surprised when Zemo took his hand in a firm grip and coolly congratulated him on their perseverance.

Before he could respond, a man in an NFL on Fox bib tugged Steve away by his free arm. “Mr. Rogers, our sideline reporter would like a few words?”

Steve sighed. “Okay.”

“Steven, Christine Everheart,” a tall blonde woman introduced herself as she dragged him into position next to her.

“Steve,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, what?” she asked.

“I go by Steve,” he said louder.

The camera light flashed on, and she immediately adopted her on-camera voice. “Steve, how difficult was this come-from-behind victory?”

Steve scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck to give himself a moment to think. “It was definitely a team effort. The defense kept us in it. Gave us the chance to find the things on offense that would work to get points on the board.”

“And just how disappointing was it to not come away with those extra two points?” Her face was the picture of sympathy, but it was just that. A picture.

“Two-point conversions are some of the trickiest plays in the game.” He matched her false sympathy with a similarly hollow smile of his own. “Peter gave us his absolute best out there, and it’s gonna be great working with him as this season develops.”

“Now we noticed you played this entire game. Can you tell us a bit about the starting job fight that’s brewing.”

Steve scowled. “No. Because there’s not one. Fitz needed the week. I needed the reps. That’s all there is to it. He and I are working hard together. I have a lot to learn from him, and he’s been really helpful.”

Thankfully, Carol Danvers materializing at his elbow gave him an out. “If you’ll excuse me.” He didn’t wait for her reply, instead just followed Carol towards the tunnel and the locker rooms.

“Is she always that bad?” He asked, glancing back over his shoulder at where she’d snared Zemo.

“Worse.” Carol rolled her eyes. “She fancies herself some kind of investigative journalist, but you know as well as I do, there’s not much to scoop as an NFL sideline reporter.”

~~*~~

The moment they touched down, Sam was leaning over the back of Steve’s seat while they taxiied to their hangar. “You coming home tonight?”

“As far as I know?” Steve said, confused.

Bucky shook his head. “You gotta  _ celebrate _ a win like this.”

Steve blushed bright red to the roots of his hair. “Your emphasis alarms me.”

Steve took his phone off airplane mode, pushing Bucky back and holding him at arm’s length when he tried to peer at Steve’s notifications. Which of course meant Sam simply reached over his shoulder and snatched his phone out of his hand. 

“‘Hey, Hot Hands, saw you on TV. Come by when you get home? I got something to show you.’ And then there’s like ten emojis no one needs said out loud.” Sam dropped Steve’s phone back into his lap. “So that’s a ‘probably not’ on the coming home, then.”

“Probably not,” Steve agreed.

“If I may offer you some advice as your veteran mentor?” Bucky asked.

Steve nodded slowly, apprehensive about what advice Bucky could possibly have for a situation like this. 

“Wrap it before you tap it.”

“Please never speak again,” Morita begged from in front of them as they inched toward the open plane doors. “I’m pretty sure the only thing you know about sex and dating is that you long for Natasha to lead you around by your dick, but she’ll barely give you the time of day.”

“What can I say,” Bucky replied with a grin. “I’m a man who knows what he wants.”

Steve looked back at Sam with pleading eyes. “Can you, I don’t know, deafen me or something?”

They made it to the doors, thanked the flight crew, and turned to descend the stairs that had been rolled up. Bucky straightened his shoulders. “Look happy, boys, we won.”

On the tarmac, Bucky and Sam stuck to Steve like glue, afraid, he supposed, they would miss out on some vital twist in his love life if they let him get on a different bus than them. He slid into a window seat in a hopeful effort at preventing anyone else from weighing in on his postgame plans and sent Tony a quick reply.

> _ We’re getting bused back to the practice compound, but then I’d love to come by. Workshop or penthouse? x _

“Can I offer you some actual advice?” Bucky asked, all traces of teasing gone, once Steve pocketed his phone.

“Sure,” Steve said.

Bucky worried at his bottom lip for a moment with his teeth, clearly trying to get his thoughts in order. “I like you. A lot. You’re a solid player and a really good guy besides.

“Don’t...don’t let anyone put pressure on you or take you for granted because of money or power or--or  _ whatever _ .” Bucky sighed. “I didn’t have a lot of...well, anything, growing up. Lotta guys in this game didn’t. Wild shit happens in this exclusive kind of company, and I don’t…” he trailed off and shrugged. “I don’t want you getting dicked around by someone more worldly than you, so don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

He offered Bucky a small smile. “Don’t think I could...you’ll take all the stupid with you the second we get off this bus.”

Bucky shoved him. “Fuck off, Rogers.”

Steve picked at a bit of lint on the seatback in front of him, trying to take Bucky’s worry seriously. Admittedly he was still getting to know Tony, and demanding professional behavior from the players didn’t necessarily correlate to personal standards. Plus, everyone and their mother had heard about him going twelve-for-twelve with the Maxim Girls. “I won’t. I’ll be careful.”

Bucky looked at him sideways as they trundled off the bus and started grabbing their overnight bags. “Not gonna tell me ‘you don’t know; it's not like that’?”

Steve shook his head. “Nope. I know this is the honeymoon phase. It’s easy to be good to someone in a bubble. Check back with me once ESPN wants to know what I’m like in the showers.”

Bucky scowled. “You think they’d wanna know about  _ that _ ?” He started steering Steve towards the parking lot. “I’ll drive you over to the subway station.”

“The human capacity for utter idiocy hasn’t peaked yet, as far as I can tell.” Steve said with a grimace. “So, yes, I can absolutely believe they’d think they have some sort of prurient right to…” he gestured vaguely. “ _ Whatever _ .”

“That’s gross. And they don’t.” Bucky stopped the car near the entrance to the MTA entrance then slapped Steve’s shoulder. “Hey. Remember, safe, sane and consensual.”

Steve wriggled out from under his hand with a laugh. “Thanks for the lift, Buck. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bucky rolled down the window and hollered his goodbye as Steve started towards the station entrance.

Steve turned back and leaned back in the rolled down window. “Oh, Bucky? Please never give me sex advice again.”

Bucky’s laughter as he drove away followed Steve up the stairs and onto the platform. He checked his phone while he was waiting on the train, and smiled at Tony’s one-word response.

> _ Penthouse. _

Midtown Manhattan on a Sunday evening was still bustling when he emerged from the subway. He tugged his phone out of his pocket and pecked out a text to Sam one-handed while he walked. 

> _ In Midtown. Don’t wait up. _

Sam’s response was quick.

> _ Be smart. And if you can’t be smart, be safe. _

“Does literally everyone think I’ve never heard of safe sex,” he muttered. Honestly. Phillips had had a rather...frank discussion with them about relationships every year right after they all got together for summer practice. Steve always pictured those scolding anti-VD posters from World War II when Phillips got stuck in on that particular lecture.

“Steve Rogers?” a loud, brash voice cut his thoughts off at the knees. A guy in Dugan’s jersey shoved back from one of the outdoor tables for a sports bar a block away from the tower. He hurried over, what could not possibly be his first drink clutched in one hand. A couple of his pals hovered a step or two behind him, clearly waiting to see which way Steve would jump on this encounter. “Man, my buddies and I were watchin’ the game today? You were...fuck, dude, we’re gonna kick  _ ass _ this season.” 

Muscle memory slid his SportsCenter smile easily onto his face. “Thanks. I’m--It was a really solid team win.”

“Totally,” Dugan-jersey agreed. His less forward friends nodded. “Hey, you wanna come have a seat? Let us buy you a beer?”

Steve let his smile slip sideways into regret. “I wish I could, fellas, but I’m meeting a friend for dinner a few blocks away.”

“Cool, cool, cool, no problem.” Alcohol thankfully made this guy agreeable. “Can we at least get a selfie?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, sweetie, take our picture with Steve fuckin’ Rogers,” the ringleader said as he grabbed a passing waitress’s arm.

Steve gently extricated her arm from this guy’s grasp. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.” He shot a frown back over his shoulder at the guy Dugan would probably beat up if he found out he owned his jersey. “I can take care of this.”

She smiled gratefully at Steve and scurried back to her job.

Pete and Re-Pete slid over to Steve and their friend, one of them offering Steve a shyly apologetic smile as he did so. Ringleader slung his arm around Steve’s shoulder like they were lifelong friends and handed Steve his phone, camera open. 

“Okay, fellas, on three...one...two...three.”

After he’d handed the phone back over and walked away, Steve couldn’t help but think of Las Vegas Cynthia and he hoped fervently that her husband and sons had loved the picture he’d taken with her as much as she clearly had. Natasha had sent him a screenshot of her tweet from Draft Night, and he kept it in the Why I Do This album on his phone.

> _ Can we talk rude fans soon? _

Natasha must have her phone soldered to her hand she replied so fast.

> _ Of course. Is everything okay? _

Steve smiled. She could act like she wanted to make sure he stayed good for her business all she wanted, but she worried over him like another mother sometimes.

> _ Yeah, but you know how it feels when something goes well by accident?  _
> 
> _ It’s one of those. _
> 
> _ I don’t want to be in the same situation again without a real plan. _

Natasha responded right away.

> _ Smart, Rogers.  _
> 
> _ I’m in Buffalo tomorrow, but I should be in New York and free on Tuesday by midday.  _
> 
> _ Feed me and I’ll teach you. _
> 
> _ Sounds good. Thanks, Nat. _

“Good evening, Mr. Rogers,” Tony’s AI greeted him when the elevator opened in the penthouse. “May I offer my congratulations on your victory this afternoon.”

“Oh, thanks, JARVIS.” Steve used his toe to guide his suitcase next to the wall in the entry then just dropped his backpack over the handle. “Hey, JARVIS, do you happen to know wh--”

The slap of bare feet on tile was the only warning he got before Tony yelled “think fast!” 

Steve caught Tony under his thighs when he jumped, and he immediately wrapped his legs around Steve’s waist and grabbed his face and started kissing him. “Do you know,” he panted, trying to talk and shove his tongue down Steve’s throat at the same time, “how fucking hot it is...watching you scowl..ooh  _ there _ ...scowl at the scoreboard.”

Steve set him down on the chichi table thing behind one of the couches in the lounge so he could run his hands up Tony’s bare thighs, rucking up the hem of Tony’s shirt. He smirked when Tony whined low in his throat and shifted restlessly until Steve kissed him again. “That’s why I do it,” he murmured, smirk growing. He ran his hands down the front of Tony’s shirt, tracing the circle of the arc reactor where it glowed, muted under the fabric of his shirt, then letting his fingers slip down to the QB on the front. “What’s this?”

Tony shrugged lazily. “Proof of life.”

“Looks good on ya,” he said and went easily when Tony wrapped his legs around Steve’s and tugged him closer between his thighs. He cradled Tony’s head gently when he leaned back down to kiss him again and abandoned the shirt to furrow his fingers through Tony’s shower-damp hair. 

“Just on?” Tony asked and smirked at Steve as he ran his hands over Steve’s shoulders and down his sides, encouraging the slow, shuddering roll of Steve’s hips with a lazy squeeze of his legs that rolled his own hips forward.

Steve laughed, a shaky thing, and he tugged at his shirt on Tony’s body with renewed intent. “Off...take this off,” he begged lowly.

“Hands’re kinda busy, here,” Tony murmured, his fingers sliding down the buttons of Steve’s shirt and along his waistband.

Steve bit another kiss into Tony’s mouth once he pulled his shirt up over Tony’s head. He smiled when he ran his hands up his bare sides, smiling when Tony twitched, ticklish, under his touch.

“How... _ how _ do you still have so many clothes on?” Tony demanded as he fumbled Steve’s belt open. 

“Let…” he kissed Tony again. “Let me?” He bumped Tony’s hands out of the way on his way to shucking his own pants off. Tony’s legs sliding against his were warm, and he couldn’t help trailing his hands up Tony’s calves, his fingers idly circling the outside of Tony’s knees where the joints of the armor would rest.

Tony grabbed the collar of Steve’s shirt. “How attached are you to this shirt?”

“You’re responsible for finding any buttons you pop off,” Steve answered against Tony’s collarbone.

“Deal,” Tony agreed and pulled. 

The ping of buttons made Steve roll his eyes, but Tony looked so proud of himself that he’d finally gotten Steve down to his underwear that he just grinned and hoisted Tony up off the table. “C’mere,” he murmured and kissed him again, hot and hungry.

“Cage deserves a raise,” Tony gasped as they finally crashed into the bedroom. He tugged himself free of Steve’s grip and crawled backwards onto the bed, his eyes promising  _ everything _ if only Steve would come too.

“Any particular reason?” Steve asked, following Tony up the bed until he could tuck himself up between Tony’s legs. 

Tony squeezed Steve’s arms as they kept kissing, slow and drugging. “You’re in excellent...mmm...condition.”

Steve laughed against Tony’s skin. “Ridiculous.”

“So what’re we--”

Steve cut Tony off with another kiss. Tony had done so much for him. He wanted...he wanted to do this for himself...for them. Taking his courage in both hands, he said, “I want you...inside me.”

“I can make that happen,” Tony agreed with a soft smile. He wriggled out from under Steve to dig in his nightstand for a moment. Steve traced his spine with his fingers, making Tony shiver. “Necessities,” he murmured when he rolled back. 

He pushed Steve down onto his back and straddled his hips. “I’m gonna make you feel amazing.”

A fine tremor radiated out to his fingers and toes when Tony leaned down to start dragging his lips down Steve’s chest. Steve didn’t think he’d ever get enough of Tony’s skilled, competent hands sliding over his bare skin, but when he let them slip lower, teasing, offering, promising, the feeling of  _ want _ that had been quietly building in his chest for weeks finally crested and he arched under Tony’s hands. “Tony, please…” 

A soft snick then Steve gasped when Tony’s lube cooled fingers teased at his rim. “Just let me…” Tony started, smiling when Steve sank into the pressure. As his teasing turned intentional, Steve started moving his hips, abortive little thrusts down against Tony’s fingers where they worked inside him. Eventually, Steve reached out and grabbed Tony’s other wrist. “Can you...I--mmm--I’m ready.”

“Jesus, look at you,” Tony murmured as he withdrew his fingers and slicked himself. 

“Yeah?” Steve asked, suddenly shy. He was used to people looking at him, commenting on his body, the way he handled it, but this, this was something entirely new. Not looking at him for what he could do on his own, but what they could do together.

Tony nodded, a lascivious glint in his eye. “Oh,  _ definitely _ . Now breathe for me…”

Steve took a deep breath, and let it out in a low groan as Tony pushed in. He grabbed for Tony’s wrist again, and Tony let him. Let him dig his fingertips into the soft underside. The place where, to Steve, Tony was the most vulnerable. “That’s...oh, that’s…”

“Tell me what you want,” Tony pressed the words into Steve’s mouth.

Steve rolled his hips to take Tony the rest of the way into himself. “You...just--just you.”

“Done.” Tony said it like a promise.

Even though he took it as permission to rock into Steve in slow, measured thrusts, it didn’t take long before Steve could already start to feel himself beginning to shake apart. They’d been building to this for weeks. Shy, hesitant kisses had turned bolder, more sure, had turned to more brazen instances of wandering hands, and finally, now, to this. Tony reached between them, touching him like he was something precious, someone worth waiting for, and when pleasure spiked, sharp and sudden in Steve’s belly, his whole torso bowed off the bed with the force of it. He came with a shudder, and Tony grinned down at him, redoubling his efforts.

“That’s it...you look gorgeous when you come,” he panted before stilling a few strokes later with his own release.

Once he’d pulled out, earning another full body shudder from Steve, and disposed of the condom, Tony perched on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through Steve’s hair, playing with his bangs. “I feel like I should ask you about your feelings right now,” he said with a twist of a smile.

Steve rolled himself against the bed, luxuriating in the feel of Tony’s decadent sheets against his bare skin. “God, why? Can’t this just be...I don’t know...good? Just...a given?”

Tony nodded. “Oh, it can. I don’t want--”

Steve sat up and stopped him with a kiss. “There are two things we  _ can _ talk about,” he murmured when he pulled back.

“What’s that?”

“Can I use your shower?” Steve kissed one corner of Tony’s jaw. He leaned over and kissed the other corner. “And can I spend the night?”

“You know, for a smart guy, you can be kinda dumb sometimes,” Tony said with a teasing smile as he stood and offered his hands to Steve to pull him up.

“Hey now!” Steve protested, but let Tony lead him into the bathroom by their joined hands. 

“Is it selfish of me if I only stay with you for your shower?” Steve asked once they were under the spray. 

“Little mercenary of you,” Tony pointed out as he handed the shampoo over.

Steve shrugged. “I’m okay with that.”

Clean and warm from the shower, they tucked up in bed together, Tony curled like a contented cat in the vee of Steve’s legs with his head on Steve’s chest. “What time do you need to report tomorrow?” Tony asked, wrapping his fingers along the curve of Steve’s ribs.

“Eight,” Steve mumbled, halfway asleep. “I’ll need to--”

His phone pinged with an incoming text, waking him back up. 

> _ I’ll meet you at the train station at work at 7:30 tomorrow morning if you wanna stash your suitcase in my trunk. _

Steve set his phone back down with a smile. Sam was officially the best roommate ever.

“Need to go to Brooklyn?” Tony asked.

Steve shook his head. “Sam’s got me.”

Tony nodded. “A prince among men.” He sighed. “Goodnight, love.” 

Tony’s weight settled heavy and still against Steve, the arc reactor an edge of pressure against Steve’s stomach. Even as Tony drifted off, Steve lay awake combing his fingers idly through his hair. Love. Tony clearly had an affinity for nicknames, so at first glance, why should ‘love’ be any different. And yet. He slipped his hand around Tony’s slack fingers and raised them to his lips. “Goodnight, Tony.”

~~*~~

**@Avenge_This**

Ran into Steve Rogers tonight outside The Tavern in Midtown. What a cool fuckin dude. 

> **@BrooklynProud**
> 
> Why would he be in Midtown? Dude lives in Brooklyn. You’re a fuckin’ liar.
> 
> **@touchdownavengers**
> 
> Seriously. He’s probably reading this shit from home...BROOKLYN...laughing at your desperate ass. Get a life and quit lying on the internet about meeting people.

**_ESPN Breaking News:_ ** _ NY Avengers set to acquire LB Bruce Banner in exchange for RB Peter Quill and CB Jack Rollins in two-team deal. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to each and every one of you who comes back week after week, reads, leaves kudos, writes such kind comments. Y'all truly give me life :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some really fuckin’ smart men in the NFL, like Myron Rolle a former safety for the Tennessee Titans. This guy is a literal neurosurgeon now that his playing career has ended. Brain. Surgery. Or Ryan Fitzpatrick with his econ degree from Harvard and his Scrabble addiction. No lie, I play online Scrabble in the vain hopes I’ll one day get matched with Fitzpatrick. I’d happily let him kick my ass with his wordplay (spoiler: I am not Harvard-smart).
> 
> The NFL, in a move I really think is neat, are HUGE advocates of youth health and fitness. When I was just a wee Longhorn, the Presidential Fitness Test and climbing the goddamn gym class rope was Peak Gym Class, and since my gym teacher in elementary framed those both as exams, they were both things to be dreaded. The NFL’s Play 60 campaign, which still exists in some form or fashion, is all about fitness through play. Which, let’s be real, if I ask you if you’d rather run and play outside for an hour or do a series of fitness tests, which the fuck are you gonna pick?!
> 
> Yes, the Buffalo Serpents are meant to be Hydra, but Hydras didn’t really seem like the sort of thing that would work particularly well as a franchise moniker. *shrug*
> 
> Y’all, let’s be clear, the NFL does not give one single shit if you’re hurt. They roll that cart out there, load your ass up, and the game moves on. It can feel a little impersonal, especially when it’s one of your faves getting carted off (hello, JJ Watt), but you must remember, at the end of the day, for good and ill, the NFL is a business. Plus, let’s be honest, it can feel quite invasive and voyeuristic to watch someone who’s injured receiving first aid from the safety of our living rooms.
> 
> I know I say this every update, but this would be a pale shadow of an imitation without Betheflame and Kestrel337. Ladies, y'all keep me on solid ground and moving forward.

**ESPN+: Every Team’s Strongest Asset and Biggest Liability Headed into Week One**

Leaving aside the vagaries of injury and circumstance, here’s who to watch for on every team, and who to watch out for.

**Jump To:** ARI | ATL | BAL | BUF | CAR | CHI | CIN | CLE | DAL | DEN | DET | GB | HOU | IND | JAX | KC | LAC | LAR | MIA | MIN | NE | NO | **NYA** | NYG | OAK | PHI | PIT | SEA | SF | TB | TEN | WAS

Head Coach Nick Fury has made several strategic moves during both the offseason and preseason transaction windows to shore up the New York Avengers at several key positions. The late-preseason addition of linebacker Bruce Banner and the return of a healthy James Barnes at cornerback make this defensive secondary a force to be reckoned with. Banner’s impressive leaps and heavy hits have made him a household name in New York, and Barnes has built his reputation on precision pass sniping on both mid- and long-range throws, to say nothing of the rest of the defense. On offense, a solid receiving corps, led by the veteran signee T’Challa Udaku, and a sharpshooting kicker in returner Clint Barton makes an impressive statement about the Avengers’ ability to put points on the board.

Interestingly, the Avengers’ biggest weakness, although ‘question’ might be more accurate, comes at quarterback. While veteran Ryan Fitzsimmons is a steady hand on offense, rumors of a nagging knee injury have overshadowed his performance in the preseason. A veteran offensive line with franchise tag Volstagg at center and returner M’Baku backed up by Thor, who puts on the Avengers uniform for the first time in his career, cannot stop every sack, so it is a question of when, not if, Fitzsimmons will go down hard. If his knee turns into an issue that keeps him from starting in the regular season, the new question becomes whether rookie backup Steve Rogers is up to the challenge. With a journeyman who looks to be on his last legs backed up by an untested rookie, there is a lot that needs answering at this, arguably the most pivotal, position.

~~*~~

When Steve and Fitz got trotted out for the media the Friday before Week One, it felt like a shitshow from start to finish. Questions about how they had been working together, how many reps each one of them got in practice, whether the 33-3 blowout loss against the Saints in the third week of preseason was the reason Fitz played the whole game against the Eagles. It went on for over an hour, and while it was certainly unpleasant, Steve was making it through with relatively benign answers, but when a young man wearing a Fox Sports badge stood up and asked, “Steve, are you disappointed the Avengers aren’t giving you the chance to start while Brock Rumlow, a second-round pick, will be starting in the season opener here this weekend?”

“Not--no?” Exasperated, Steve glanced at Fitz who just rolled his eyes down at the table. “I know we’ve both talked about this before.” He pointed between the pair of them. “If I was on a team that needed me to start, I’d start. But I’m not. I’m here. Fitz is healthy and good at his job, so he’s starting.”

A flicker of motion at the edge of Steve’s attention had him glancing over to the door where Sharon Carter gently tapped her watch then made a ‘wrap it up’ gesture. Steve breathed a sigh of relief, and Fitz smiled generously at the assembled media reps as they stood. “We really appreciate your interest in how we’re developing as a team. I have to say, I can’t wait for Sunday. We’re gonna have a great season.”

~~*~~

“Now explain again why we’re having a bike rally as our kickoff event?” Sam asked as he and Steve piled off the subway and headed up the station stairs in the midst of a throng of Avengers fans.

“Raising awareness for Play 60,” Steve answered. “And donating bikes and school supplies to cute, underprivileged kids.”

Sam just fixed him with a Look. “And how does a motorcycle show help us do that?”

Steve shrugged. “The validation of masculinity that comes from large, athletic men and loud, shiny machines?”

“This would make so much more sense if we were in South Dakota,” Sam muttered, shaking his head. 

“I don’t think the Sturgis Avengers has quite the same ring to it,” Steve pointed out.

“Steve Rogers?” A woman in a snappy red sheath stopped Steve with a gentle hand on his arm. “I’m Margaret Carter with the USO. Your agent, Mis Romanoff gave me your name.”

“I’ll see you inside,” Sam murmured with a slap to Steve’s shoulder.

“Ms. Carter, yeah, I--I’ve been meaning to get back to you, but--”

She waved him off. “The start of the season is hectic for veteran players. I’m sure that goes double for you rookies. Miss Romanoff had said--that is--she made it seem like you were interested in doing some volunteer work with our organization.”

“I--yeah--that is, I think so?” He smiled sheepishly at her. “I’m not honestly sure what the USO does, or what you’d like me to do.”

She smiled up at him. “We offer a variety of programs to bring comfort to our troops both at home and overseas. We can help you find a place where you’d fit in. Especially since Natasha tells me you’re the son of a KIA veteran?”

Damn Natasha. He should’ve known she’d leverage the bits of himself that suited her purposes to get what she wanted. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Peggy.” She patted his arm reassuringly. “You don’t have to make a decision right this instant. If I could leave you with my contact details? That way we can speak soon and see what role would best suit you in our organization.”

Steve nodded, feeling slightly trapped, and accepted the business card she passed over. He tucked it into his phone case. “I’m--I’ll spend some time on your website, and then, maybe, send you an email?”

“That sounds perfect, Steve. I look forward to hearing from you.” She smiled. “I’ll let you get back to your event.”

Steve nodded his goodbye then turned to head towards the motorcycle show that took up half the players’ lot and the kids football clinic taking place inside the stadium. 

“What’d petite and brunette want?” Sam asked when they were finally on their way home for the evening.

“Wants me to volunteer with the USO.”

Sam shot him a sideways look. “You gonna do it?”

Steve shrugged. “Dunno. I might. Military’s a hard life.”

Sam’s look only intensified; he was still clearly unimpressed by some part of that idea. “If you think that’s the best use of your voice.”

“I guess so,” Steve said. “I don’t have any better ideas.”

~~*~~

The first thing Steve noticed when he made his way down the tunnel and onto the field for warmups late Sunday morning was how much _more_ everything seemed. “Shoot to Thrill” blared over the stadium’s PA, and fans decked out in their red and gold finest gathered at the barricade separating the stands from the field, clearly hoping to catch the eye of their favorite players before kickoff. Steve recognized the group of guys in their jerseys and firemen’s helmets from prior weeks, but Bucky peeled off from where he’d been walking with Steve and Sam to go talk to a group of ladies all wearing his jersey.

“Now can we tweet this?” one of them asked. Between her smile and her voice, Steve pegged her as Dolores from the Bark N’ Purr rescue group.

Bucky grinned up at them. “‘Course you can, Dot. You know I’m good for it.”

“Oh you say that now, but what if you end up leading the league like you did last season?” One of Dot’s friends chimed in. 

Bucky laughed. “Why d’you think I got hurt? Had to slow myself down.”

Dot rolled her eyes. “Oh get lost and go warm up.” She caught Steve’s eye and waved. “Good to see you again, Steve, good luck today.”

Steve offered her a small smile and waved back. “Thanks.”

“Don’t look now,” Bucky murmured as they turned back to the field. “But you got a fan.”

Steve quirked an eyebrow at him. “What? Where?”

Bucky nodded over to the far sideline where Tony stood conversing with an older gentleman in a three-piece suit. Tony looked like he’d come straight from his workshop, eminently casual, and touchable, in black work pants and tennis shoes he’d only bothered to lace most of the way, but he’d traded out his normal vintage band shirt in favor of Steve’s jersey. While Steve stood and stared at Tony wearing something Steve had bought specifically for him, he couldn’t help the flush of _want-mine_ that crawled up his spine. 

“Twelve looks _good_ on him.” 

“Jesus God!” Steve about jumped out of his skin at the sound of Bucky’s voice in his ear. “Could you not be weird for like two seconds?”

“Lines!” Fury’s voice carried across the field.

“Nope!” Bucky grinned and hustled towards his line before Steve could smack him.

“What’s he doing to you now?” Sam asked as he fell in next to Steve to start stretching.

Steve tossed his head in Tony’s general direction. Tony who had angled himself towards the field and tugged his sunglasses down his nose like he was looking for something.

“That’s...subtle,” Sam jabbed him in the ribs as they stepped up for their turn to moving stretches. 

“Yeah, but…”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Hearteyes motherfucker,” he called over his shoulder as he stepped into his first lunge. 

Even though he wasn’t playing, Steve helped Fitz throw warmup routes and ran practice plays to get the defense moving in sync. For the most part, Steve kept his eyes on what he was meant to be doing, but he couldn’t help but notice Tony as he made his way back around to the Avengers sideline and hung around for the entire warmup. At one point Christine Everheart materialized next to Tony, mic in hand and camera man at her side, and the inquisitive inflection in her voice made Steve double down on his attention on the field. Tony’s answering tone sounded flippant, but the way he looked down the field, scanning until he caught Steve’s eye, was anything but. 

“Rogers, get your head in it,” Coach Jones snapped when Steve bobbled a ball one of the ball boys tossed back to him.

“Yes, sir.”

As the offense trotted off the field at the end of warmups, Sam jumped against Steve, knocking into him with his shoulder pads. “You two are disgusting, you know?”

“Why?” Steve asked.

“He’s not wrong,” Bucky added. “Some of those looks could get someone pregnant.”

“ _Why_?” he demanded. “I literally did nothing.”

Bucky just waggled his eyebrows then jammed his helmet on his head and went to go listen to his position coach’s final instructions.

“How’s his knee?” Steve asked Carol when Fitz left with the rest of the captains for the coin toss and the rest of the team had scattered to their last-minute prep.

She shrugged. “Looked solid against Philadelphia, but it looked solid against the Giants too.” She looked up from her tablet and fixed Steve with a hard stare. “You don’t get to be Fitz’s age without having some old injuries that just hang around. We just need to protect him as best we can.”

Steve nodded.

“I don’t think anything’ll happen, but…” she sighed. “Joe Theismann didn’t either till it did.”

~~*~~

_Fox Sports welcomes you to the following presentation of the National Football League…_

_Welcome to New York Stadium here in New York City and welcome to the opening weekend of the 2019 NFL season. America’s Game of the Week is a good matchup between the Buffalo Serpents and the New York Avengers. For the sixth time in seven years, the Avengers are hosting the Serpents in week one of the regular season, and this year looks to be a matchup between a tried and tested veteran quarterback in Ryan Fitzsimmons against a fiery, hungry newcomer in rookie Brock Rumlow. I’m Joe Buck, along with my partner here in the booth, Troy Aikman, and it looks like the veteran will get the chance to show us how it’s done, as the Avengers are back to receive first. Coach Nick Fury is looking to build on the successes of last season and get out to a fast start this season with a win against their division rival, the Buffalo Serpents. Coming off two straight years of season-over-season growth, Fury, and indeed Avengers fans, will settle for nothing less than a playoff spot this season._

_That’s right, Joe. When I was talking with Fury yesterday, he said he had three points for his team: stay focused, do your job, and go win the game. Sage advice from a coach who’s had a lot of success both on the field and behind the headset in his career. As the Serpents and the Avengers are getting lined up here for the opening kickoff, a reminder that this game is also airing in Spanish on Fox Deportes._

Steve had forgotten just how nerve wracking standing on the sideline as a backup could be, but he’d been studying Fitz’s play style long enough now that it became easier to see him adjusting and adapting to the Serpents’ defensive schemes. The first drive fizzled after a couple quick first downs, though, when the O-line picked up two holding penalties back-to-back. 

“What’s goin’ on with those holding calls? And why did we let Rollins go?” Fitz groused as he hung his helmet and grabbed some water. “Guy’s a brick wall.”

Steve hummed as he backed through the footage looking for the start of the drive. “We needed another linebacker. Needed Banner’s…” Steve looked up at him. “Wildness.”

“That’s one word for it.” He thumped Steve’s shoulder then pointed down at the tablet. “Show me.”

They broke down the first drive, leaning their heads together when the call for “Avengers, it’s third down!” boomed over the PA. 

“Never gets old,” Fitz said with a grin as the crowd started screaming for the stop. “Saw you had a fan, by the way.” 

Steve blinked at Fitz. “A--a fan?”

Fitz grinned and nodded. “Sure. Stark was wearing your jersey. I think he rotated through all the newcomers’ jerseys last season. ‘S nice he’s doing that again. Makes you guys more a part of the team.”

Steve stared down at the tablet in his hands, willing the blush he could feel creeping up his cheeks to fade. “That’s--that is nice.”

The front five hand apparently sorted themselves out because they started actually blocking instead of just tugging on their assignment and getting penalized, and left the rest of the offense better able to focus on moving the ball forward instead of making up yards from lazy play penalties. By the end of the first, Fitz had linked up with Hopkins for a catch-and-run that involved two smoothly broken tackles on his way to the endzone, but Brock had answered right back with a touchdown pass of his own two drives later. Midway through the second, a field goal had put the Serpents briefly on top, but Clint came back and nailed a 50-yard field goal right before the half to pull them back even. 

When they made it back to the locker room, Fitz dragged Steve with him into the training room to talk strategy while one of the trainers iced his knee and injected him with an anti-inflammatory. 

Steve trailed a finger down the bag of ice strapped to Fitz’s knee, grimacing at the squeak of the plastic under his finger. “You told Carol you weren’t hurt when she asked,” he said.

Fitz shrugged. “Get to be my age in this game, and you’re always hurt.” He patted Steve’s arm. “Don’t look so worried. I’ll be fine.”

Steve offered him a lopsided smile. “Good. I still got a thing or two to learn from you, you know.”

Fitz shook his head then started peeling the tape off his leg. Their time in the locker room was almost up. “You’ve got a head for this game.” He slapped Steve’s shoulder pad. “You’ll make somebody a great franchise quarterback.”

“Makes me sound like marrying material,” Steve said as he followed Fitz out of the training room. 

“You are. Don’t let anyone tell you different,” Sam said with a solemn nod.

Steve shook his head and changed the subject. “Saw you doin’ your part, out there.”

Sam grinned. “Positive pass yards, baby. The receptionist at my new dentist said she’s a fan, and she’s cute, so…”

Fitz rolled his eyes. “See if she’s still sayin’ that once you bobble a pass some sports talking head says should’ve been an easy catch.”

“Hey,” Bucky broke in, a couple of the Howlies trailing behind him. “Steve, you played with Rumlow, right?”

“Once,” Steve said. “I started the second game in a two-year home-and-home series with them.”

“Any insight?” Bucky prodded. “His preseason film’s not really a match for what we’re seeing today.”

“He’s...he was good with the multi-prong offense Ohio State was running.” Steve shrugged. “You know the kind...cut off one route and it feels like there’s two others that jump up to replace it?”

Bucky nodded. 

“That’s part of what made him hard to get a handle on. He’s not afraid to become a run option himself.” Steve gestured towards the Serpents’ sideline. “Plus, Schmidt seems like he’s running a similar style of offense to what Rumlow left, so there’s less of a learning curve.”

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered before he turned a winning smile on Fitz, Hopkins, and Sam. “You guys just gotta put more points up then.”

“Oh, is that how football works?” Fitz asked broadly.

“I was wondering,” Sam agreed.

“Oh, get bent, you know what I mean,” Bucky said with an eye roll from inside his helmet.

Points, for both teams, became remarkably difficult to come by in the third quarter as both the Avengers and the Serpents settled into a back-and-forth grudge match. 

“I hate these kinds of games,” Carol muttered from near Steve’s elbow as Fitz got the offense lined up to start another drive from the Serpents’ 31. “Too…” she waved her hand at the field, “too tenuous.”

Steve nodded. “Problems get magnified.”

As soon as Fitz took the first down snap and turned to hand it off to Miller, Steve could see the play breaking down. Rollins and one of the defensive ends breached the line almost immediately and headed straight for Fitz to cut off the handoff. They bowled sideways into Fitz, and he went down hard, the ball popping loose.

“Aw, wrong way, Fitzy,” Clint called as the back judge started peeling the pile apart.

At the bottom of the heap, Miller and Fitz were both huddled around the ball, but when Miller stood up, Fitz did not. He curled in on himself then completely stopped moving. In that split second, the sideline exploded into motion. The trainers were three steps onto the field when Bucky grabbed Steve’s arm and a ball and dragged him behind the benches. 

“Throw with me,” Bucky ordered.

They threw, Bucky stepping back every time he passed the ball back to Steve, and Steve didn’t ask if Fitz was okay. When the TV timeout official stepped onto the field while Fitz still lay on his back where he’d gone down, the whole stadium groaned. Carol and Fury came over and talked at Steve, reviewing their game plan and the Serpents’ defensive schemes, but Fury abandoned them when the lead trainers brought the medical cart out. 

“Is he gonna…?”

Bucky shook his head and tucked the ball under his arm. “You know they don’t bring that out if you’ve just skinned your knee.” 

“Rogers!” Fury motioned him over to where he’d circled up the rest of the offense. The medical team had given up on getting Fitz to his feet and had started working to strap him into an air cast to immobilize his whole leg.

Bucky followed Steve while he tugged on a play wristband. Bucky stopped him when he turned away from the bench, helmet in hand. “Don’t...don’t worry about Fitzy. We’ve got medical for that. You just…” he sighed. “You just pick up where he left off and get us over the line.”

Steve nodded.

In the huddle, Fury was all business. “We have to assume Fitz won’t be coming back today. That means Rogers, you’re it.” He looked at all of them, meeting each man’s gaze before he spoke again. “Now we’re gonna finish, and we’re gonna finish strong. You all know the looks these guys have been giving us, so you should be able to capitalize.” 

The medical crew had finally gotten Fitz strapped up and settled into the bed of the medical cart, but before they whisked him off into the bowels of the stadium, they paused at the Avengers’ sideline. The whole sideline crowded around their fallen captain. Fitz accepted their muttered reassurances and pats to the shoulder with a smile he gritted out against the obvious pain in his leg. 

“Steve...c’mere, Rogers,” he demanded after the kind words had petered out. Bucky shoved Steve forward, and Fitz grabbed the hem of his jersey to make him focus. “I know this isn’t how you’d’ve wanted to take over, but it’s what we’ve got. 

“You’re a good quarterback. You know this game and you know these guys.” He clasped his hand around Steve’s neck where it poked out from his shoulder pads. “Make us proud.”

“Gentlemen, let’s go,” the line judge said. Fitz let Steve go, and the medical staff nodded and fired up the engine and drove off into the tunnel.

Steve watched the cart until it disappeared into the shadows of the tunnel, until Sam jogged his arm. “You ready?”

He tugged his helmet on. “Yeah. Let’s get this done.”

Thankfully, the botched handoff had only set them back two yards, so second and 12 from the 29 wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. Hell, they were sending the offense back out instead of having to scramble the defense. Two downs and only seven yards later, it didn’t really matter anyway as the punt unit came out to get rid of the ball. Mindful of the way networks loved to capture sideline drama, Steve calmly traded his helmet for the tablet Danvers was holding out to him.

“Can we help you acclimate?” Thor asked, sliding onto the bench next to Steve where he was studying the last drive. 

Steve looked up and nodded at Thor with a relieved smile, and T’Challa and Hopkins both circled around with their own observations and advice. Danvers pitched in when they got stuck, and the third quarter wound down with the defense making an impressive stop when Dernier blew up Rumlow on a botched play to get his first sack of the season. 

Back on the field with only 15 minutes to make something, anything, happen, the offense had to buckle down. “We know Rollins,” Steve reminded them in the huddle. “We’ve watched this defense work all afternoon.”

The press forward into Serpents’ territory picked up steam when they started to mix run and pass plays a little more freely. Scott picked up a smooth eight yards on a first down screen pass, and T’Challa followed up with a slick 13 yard run to push them to midfield. Yards became a bit harder to come by once they hit the 50, but they still managed to drive all the way down to the 18. 

Third and four was always a strange down and distance, Steve thought as he consulted the cheat sheet on his wrist. It always felt like a long run play but a short pass play. He called for a play action, hoping the way the Serpents had focused on stopping the Avengers’ rush game would open up some mid-range throw options. 

Volstagg snapped the ball, and T’Challa pretended to accept a handoff from Steve smoothly. Unfortunately, when the line moved their blocks to sell the run, the Serpents’ other, massive linebacker Batroc broke around the end of the line.

“Fuck,” Steve muttered and started speeding through his progression. He ducked out of Batroc’s arms when he grabbed for Steve, and just threw the ball away, bringing up fourth down.

“You know, I can kick PATs too,” Clint sniped as he ran onto the field with the special teams unit. 

“Just ignore him,” T’Challa advised. “He’s not content unless he’s the center of attention.”

“You got us in the lead,” Fury said with a small smile. “Now it’s up to the defense to keep us there.”

“You got it, Coach,” Dugan nodded. 

For a while, they seemed to. Steve and the offense didn’t quite make it into the endzone on their next two drives, but they did squeeze into Clint’s range for another field goal. On the other side of the ball, the Howlies were holding the Serpents’ offense to similarly paltry drives and, thankfully, no points. Just before the two minute warning, however, Jasper Sitwell, the weaselly running back the Serpents had been using to sneak in critical gains, slipped through the secondary and bolted for open turf. Monty and Dernier took off after him, but he stepped out of the shoestring tackle Monty put on him and into the endzone.

Fury grabbed the hem of Steve’s jersey to hold him still during the two minute warning media timeout. “We’ve only got two minutes, and you know a field goal will get it done.”

Steve nodded.

“Miller got you some decent field position on that kickoff. Don’t waste it.”

‘Don’t waste it’ turned into a slog of a drive that kept extending to third downs, draining precious time off the clock. At third and five on the Serpents’ 33, the booth dialled up the same play action pass play that had ended with Steve having to throw the ball away. This time, it was Rollins who got the drop on the play, bursting through the line right as they went to shift the block. Steve took off running and pumped the ball, trying to find an open man downfield. Neither Sam nor Scott had shaken their defenders, and T’Challa was too far into the fake to still take a pitch out. 

Rollins slammed into Steve’s torso in a rugby tackle. Steve went down hard, breath punched out of him as he landed on his back, but he squeezed the ball to his chest, determined to hang onto it. Rollins collapsed on top of him, and started scrabbling to strip the ball until the whistle went. When Steve rolled over and pushed himself off the turf, he scowled. He’d lost eight yards and they’d fallen all the way back to the 41. With only ten seconds left and now well out of Clint’s range, it had to be a touchdown or nothing.

Fury emptied the backfield and stacked the receiving corps in preparation for a long bomb. On the other side of the field, Schmidt backed up his defensive secondary and spread them out, so they were all ready to cover deep routes. 

Snap. 

Drop. 

As Steve went through his reads, Hopkins was the most open, a half step off his defender, so he pulled back and let fly with the pass. He got under it, got a hand on it, bobbled it once...twice...before the free safety reached a hand in and batted the ball out of his reach. The head ref whistled the play dead. Instead of trotting the offense back out for the last two seconds of the game, the Serpents and Avengers all just broke from the sideline and started shaking on the game. 

“Better luck next time, huh, Rogers,” Rumlow said with a smirk when he grabbed Steve’s hand.

Steve offered him a thin smile as they shook, but didn’t bother to rise to his bait.

Rollins came over and clapped Steve on the shoulder. “I’m real sorry Fitz got hurt. Tell him for me, would ya?”

Steve held out his hand, and Rollins took it with a grateful smile. “Of course I’ll tell him.”

Rollins nodded and moved off, and Steve started casting around for Danvers. He saw her on the edge of the milling teams speaking with one of the Serpents’ coaches. Before he could make his way over, though, Bucky grabbed his elbow.

“You got nothin’ to be ashamed of, you know, Rookie?” Bucky asked.

Steve shrugged. “I guess so.” He caught sight of Christine Everheart interviewing Brock on the far sideline. “How long do we have to stay out here?”

Bucky shook his head. “Not a second longer if you don’t want.”

“Let’s go, then,” Steve said, and let Bucky steer him towards the tunnel back to the locker rooms.

“Steve. Steve!” Carol’s voice echoed after them down the concrete hallway under the stands. 

“Yeah?”

Carol trotted up to them and fell in step as they continued towards the locker rooms. “Fury’s gonna want you at the podium after he does his postgame. So get in there, get cleaned up, and get yourself ready.”

“How awful is this gonna be?” Steve asked Bucky after Carol had stepped into the media room to give her own postgame.

“Pretty bad,” Bucky confirmed. “I got a lot more responsibility after J.Joe had that career-ender last year, and the talking heads were all over me. Didn’t help, of course, that he and I were teaming up on some double coverage when he went down. So ‘do you feel responsible?’ wasn’t _great_ to hear.”

“I wasn’t--”

“No, you weren’t,” Bucky agreed. “But, they are gonna try to restart the ‘quarterback controversy’ angle.”

Steve rolled his eyes. As if he needed that on top of having lost them the season opener at home. In the locker room, he shoved his helmet on the shelf in the top of his locker and yanked at the straps of his shoulder pads.

“Bring it in,” Fury’s voice cut across the low hum of conversation. “Now, we didn’t get the result we wanted today. But,” he waited until Steve quit fiddling with his shoulder pads and met Fury’s eye. “Every single one of you did your job. Under trying circumstances, no less. We’re gonna get back in the weight room and back on the field on Monday, and we’ll be ready for Monday Night Football in Cleveland. Now, get finished here and get home to your families. Rogers, you’ll be in with the media in about 30 minutes.”

Bucky and Volstagg, the gold C gleaming mutely on their jerseys, motioned everyone in. When they spoke, they spoke together. “Avengers, assemble on three. One...two...three…”

“Assemble!” they responded then broke to get themselves cleaned up.

Steve retreated to his locker and started stripping off his game gear, making a pile of dirty clothes for the equipment team and a pile he’d need to take home and wash himself. He hustled through a quick shower, nodding silent thanks when Scott let him jump on an open spot first. When he made it back to his locker, most of the offensive starters were hanging around his locker.

“Fellas,” he nodded at them then started getting himself together. 

“You did well today,” Thor said, blunt as always. 

T’Challa nodded. “A steady hand when we needed it most.”

“Didn’t feel that way,” Steve muttered. The feel of that final play still clung to his legs, to his arms. Making his hands and feet feel slippery and untrustworthy.

Sam sat down in the chair next to him and watched Steve lace up his street shoes for a moment before he spoke. “How many games have you lost?”

“Here or in general?”

Sam shrugged. “In general.” He tapped Steve’s knee. “How many?”

Steve thought back, counting on his fingers. “Are we counting my redshirt year?”

“Sure.”

“Eight losses in college, counting my redshirt season. Probably twice as many losses in high school...and around the same number for junior high.”

Sam nodded. “So you’ve lost before.”

Steve shrugged. “Well, sure, I mean--”

“So you know this isn’t all on you,” Sam barrelled over him. 

Pietro stuck his head in and called over to him, “we’re ready for you, Rogers.”

“Got it,” he replied and stood.

Sam grabbed his shoulders, forcing Steve to look at him. “Hey, tell me you hear me?”

Steve nodded down at his feet then looked back up and met Sam’s calm, steady gaze. “I hear you.”

Sam let him go. “You okay if I head out?”

Steve offered Sam a ghost of a smile. “You do realize I know how the subways work, right?”

Sam just rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I wonder. Hear about you ending up all kindsa places I wouldn’t expect.”

Pietro smiled reassuringly at Steve as they made the short trip down the hall to the press room. 

“Anything I should say? Or steer clear of?”

Pietro shook his head. “We’ve found basic human decency carries the day rather well in the wake of injuries like this. They’ll be fishing, but from everything I’ve seen, you’ve got a canny nose for their bait.”

Steve straightened his shoulders and reached for the door handle. “Wish me luck.”

~~*~~

Over half an hour later, Sharon finally stepped in to wrap up the postgame presser. She thanked Steve for his time as he escaped the podium and the whole press room. He didn’t think there were so many ways to ask the same handful of questions. Repeatedly. He supposed each outlet didn’t really want to run the quote someone else had gotten, but he could only say “we’re hoping for a quick, full recovery, but we have to wait for what the doctors say” so many different ways. 

“Going my way?” a familiar voice asked as he exited the locker room to head for the trains.

He smiled at Tony leaning against a support pillar like he owned the place. Well, really…

“I could be,” he said, quietly pleased Tony had hung around to wait for him.

Tony waggled his eyebrows behind his red sunglasses. “Billy Ocean has a suggestion for times like this.”

“You’d trust public parking with one of your cars?” Steve asked, incredulous.

Tony looped his arm through Steve’s elbow and rolled his eyes. “Of course not. But you know I don’t only travel in vehicles that I drive.”

Steve grabbed his wallet out of his backpack and tugged his Metrocard free. “MTA it is, then.”

“You’re a heathen,” Tony said with a laugh. He dug in his back pocket and produced his phone. “I was gonna call Happy and have him take us...well, he can take us wherever we want to go.”

Steve sighed, the emotional and physical turmoil of going from observing to replacing an injured starter suddenly catching up with him. “I kinda just want to go home.”

Tony squeezed his arm, refusing to let go as he typed with both hands. “No problem. Your home? My home? The guy in seat 4F’s home?”

Steve laughed. “My home. I just want everything to be...small...for a while.” 

“Easy. Done.” He pointed at the Rolls Royce Phantom idling in the driveway by the athletes’ entrance. “Let’s go home.”

In the car, Tony wiggled down into the seat like a contented cat. “Brooklyn, Happy.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Happy agreed as he pulled out of the stadium lots and into traffic.

Tony didn’t try to force conversation, instead letting Steve ride with him in an easy quiet, the soft purr of the Rolls’s engine a blur of white noise. Steve settled back against the leather seat and let his eyes rest, smiling softly when Tony eased over and leaned his head on Steve’s shoulder. 

“Nice jersey, by the way,” Steve murmured as they finally broke free of the postgame gridlock. 

Tony brushed his hand over the 12 on his front. “Yeah, some guy got it for me. Said something about wearing it like his letter jacket?”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh. 

“Where in Brooklyn?” Happy asked, the hum of the tires on the bridge the only sign they were leaving Manhattan. 

“Prospect Heights,” Steve said, then gave the cross streets. 

Late afternoon had barely started turning into early evening when Happy pulled up in front of Steve’s house. The golden light of late summer made the reddish brown stone facade of Steve’s rowhouse look even more red. 

“You want me to wait?” Happy offered.

Tony shook his head. “I’ll call a company car tomorrow morning.”

“Have a good night, boss,” Happy said then rolled up the windows and drove off.

Inside, Steve put his things away, got them fed, and then they took up residence on the living room couch, Steve idly twirling Tony’s hair around his fingers as they lay curled together. _The Repair Shop_ mumbled softly to itself on the television.

“Everheart mentioned you,” Steve murmured.

Tony rolled his eyes. “She’s been up my nose since I bought the team. What’d she want this time?”

Steve sighed. “She seems to think you’re the reason Fitz got hurt.”

Tony popped up, wincing when a tangle caught on Steve’s fingers. “The hell?”

“You know how superstitious athletes are,” Steve explained. “She wanted to know if I thought you wearing my jersey...I don’t know...put it out in the universe that I should be playing instead of him.”

Tony resettled himself against Steve’s chest and tugged Steve’s hands back up towards his hair. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Instead of resuming playing with Tony’s hair, Steve squeezed Tony in a tight, fierce hug. “I’m not gonna let her, or anyone, turn you into some Jessica Simpson.”

“I resent that,” Tony sniped. “I can totally tell the difference between chicken and tuna.”

Steve used the leverage from his arms still wrapped around Tony to flip them on the couch, smiling brightly when Tony barked out a surprised laugh. “You know damn well what I mean.”

From his spot on his back, Tony reached up and brushed Steve’s bangs out of his eyes. “I do. And I won’t. Years making the press my bitch, remember?”

Steve settled down in the vee of Tony’s legs, chuckling when Tony let out an overexaggerated groan at his weight. “Press is stupid.”

“Press helps pay your bills, darling,” Tony pointed out. 

They lay in the gathering dark for a while longer before Steve untangled his hands from around Tony’s waist and clapped twice, making the living room lamps turn on.

“Please, dear God, tell me that my eyes did not just deceive me, and you have a _Clapper_ for your living room lights,” Tony’s glee was practically tangible.

Steve laughed as he felt a blush heat his face. “It was the first birthday present I ever bought my ma with my own money. I thought it was the coolest thing, being able to turn your lights on all at once like that.”

“Did you get her a Chia Pet for Christmas that year?”

Steve shook his head against the arc reactor. “Nah. The garden center didn’t carry them regularly, and I’da had to order it. I got her a new copy of her favorite book. Her old one had fallen apart a couple months earlier, and she hadn’t had time to go get a new one.”

“What book,” Tony asked.

“ _The Scarlet Pimpernel_.” Steve sighed. “She loved that book. Said it was the first, best superhero story she ever read.” 

“What about you?” he asked a few minutes later. 

“What about me?” Tony asked, sounding a little wary.

“First birthday present you bought one of your parents with your own money?”

“How about built?” Tony offered.

“That works,” Steve agreed easily. He watched Tony smile with the memory.

“I built my mom a little tabletop-sized robot that would turn the pages of her sheet music when she played the piano.”

Steve smiled. “I bet she loved it.”

Tony nodded. “I programmed it to turn the pages when she’d nod at it. She called it Player...like a player-piano.” He hugged Steve closer. “I’d gotten too big to squeeze onto the bench with her and turn the pages myself…”

“So you gave her a bit of you to keep doing it?” Steve finished.

“Exactly.” Tony laughed to himself. “I pulled the concept of Player’s claw hand forward when I built DUM-E a few years later.”

Steve smiled at the picture of a young Tony building a robot to do the job he’d clearly enjoyed but had to surrender. Then at an older Tony wanting to keep a bit of that first robot with him in the newer, more sophisticated model. He’d done the same thing with keeping that silly Clapper. Sarah had laughed when she’d opened it. Laughed and then hugged Steve and insisted he pick out what lights it would control. 

“Thank you for this,” Steve murmured a while later, when the ‘Are you still watching’ prompted them to just turn off the TV.

“For what?” Tony asked idly.

Steve leaned down and kissed Tony soft and slow, pulling back with a quiet smile. “For letting me be a dork who bought his mom a Clapper for her birthday.”

Tony shrugged diffidently, but his eyes were bright with the compliment. “You’ve got tons of time to be an Avenger.” He pushed himself up on his elbows and kissed Steve again. No rush. No agenda. Trading hazy kisses as the last of the sun faded from the windows. “You can just be Steve as long as you need.”

~~*~~

**_ESPN Breaking News:_ ** _Ryan Fitzsimmons out for the remainder of the season with torn ACL/MCL. Steve Rogers expected to start at quarterback moving forward._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your kind words and continued support. I'm humbled every update when y'all come back and leave me such lovely, thoughtful, excited comments.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes:
> 
> I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to my American Folklore professor from grad school because I used the transcription skills I learned in his course to get the lyrics to the Monday Night Football song right (or as right as I could). I’m using the 2018 version that featured Florida Georgia Line and Jason Derulo because it could exist in any season. The 2019 lyrics could not. Plus...unpopular opinion time...I liked the 2018 opener. I know a lot of folks didn’t really like the addition of two, more contemporary (less dickbag-ish), artists, but I liked them. They brought some snap (HA) with the way ESPN decided to remix the music.
> 
> I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, but I’m trying to make opposing teams a group from the Marvel universe (the Giants were all Guardians of the Galaxy, Buffalo is Hydra, you get me). Well, the Browns are the worst/stupidest villains in the Marvel universe. Think the likes of Paste-Pot Pete, Leap Frog, and Flag Smasher. What can I say...it’s the Browns...they’ve been rebuilding since 1964.
> 
> Thanks as always to Betheflame and Kestrel337 for superior cheer and beta help. Additionally, special guest star thanks to Stella for some choice inspo pictures and Der Mann for exceptional laying on the living room floor and looking shit up for me...who the hell knew Flag Smasher had a real name?! Not this gal.

**[Hank Williams Jr. feat. Florida Georgia Line and Jason Derulo]:** __

_ There’s bright lights on, time to stake your claim,  _

_ For Monday Night Football’s Hall of Fame. _

_ The runs, the stops, and the incredible throws, _

_ They all turn it up when they play in this show. _

_ The Avengers are out to show no pity  _

_ When they meet the Browns in Rock n’ Roll City! _

_ Tell me if you’re ready for a party, _

_ Lemme hear it if you wanna win! _

_ You know it’s time to ball,  _

_ We ‘bout to kick it off, _

_ Then all y’all at the games begin! _

_ New York, get ready! _

_ Cleveland, get ready! _

_ Are you ready for some football? _

_ A Monday night party _

_ The stage is set; let’s get it kick-started. _

_ Get your game face on; the crowd’s gettin’ psyched, _

_ All my rowdy friends are here on Monday Night! _

~~*~~

From the moment he’d convinced his mom to sign the forms to let him play football in junior high, Steve had daydreamed about playing under the Monday Night Lights. Realistically, fourteen-year-old him hadn’t seriously believed it would ever happen. The seventh grade offensive coordinator had called him a 40-pointer. He’d only see the field if they were 40 points up or 40 points down. When he couldn’t affect the game. Of course, that same OC had been more than happy to tweet about how he’d helped make Steve into an NFL starter. Steve had a hard time caring about any of that, though, as he made his way onto the field to start warmups.

“Dude, pinch me,” Sam said as they gathered on the sideline to watch the coin toss. 

Steve reached out and pinched the meat of Sam’s tricep, smirking when Sam turned to glare at him. “You should probably start saving for your cousins’ jerseys.”

Sam laughed. “You’re probably right.”

As soon as Clint buried the kickoff in the back corner of the endzone, the Avengers took control of the game. Dugan’s sack and Morita’s swatted down pass both contributed to a quick three-and-out from the defense and the Browns’ botched punt meant Steve and the offense got a short field for their first drive. 

“First first down,” Danvers reminded him with a slap on the back of the helmet before she shoved him out towards the center hash with the rest of the offense.

A short field opened up a lot more first down options simply because they weren’t backed up, so Steve decided to see if they could shake something loose in the run game. T’Challa was more than happy to take a slant route for a gain of an easy seven on the first snap to get them rolling. A short field also meant it only took a handful of plays to get them down to the 12 without wasting a lot of clock. 

Lining up in the shotgun on second and seven, Steve could see Arnie Gunderson, the Browns’ massive defensive tackle, committing to Hopkins’ route even before the snap. He rolled his eyes and hitched his leg to trigger the silent count. Volstagg snapped him the ball and Gunderson immediately went after Hopkins while Patilio lept off his block after Scott. Scott must not have been Patilio’s original assignment though, because in his enthusiasm to go after Lang, he ended up doubling one of the other safeties, leaving Sam wide open near the goal line. Steve settled himself at the end of his three-step drop and unleashed a dart straight into Sam’s numbers. Sam didn’t even turn around as he stepped back over the goalline for the touchdown. 

“Made that look easy,” Hopkins said with a slap to Sam’s back when they met him in the endzone.

“First regular season touchdown!” Sam crowed, grabbing Steve by the shoulderpads and whirling them around in a tight circle.

“First of many,” Steve promised as they ran off the field to make way for special teams.

“Would you look at that,” Carol said with a broad smile. 

Steve took off his helmet and hugged her. “First first down,” he said. “I think I needed reminding I didn’t need to win the game on first and ten.”

She laughed and passed him the StarkPad with a play already queued up. “You got that right. Now look here,” she said, and pointed at the play on the screen. “You read the overcommitment and the missed assignment on the touchdown, but they won’t all be that easy.” She pressed play and they watched the one major play collapse where he’d had to throw the ball away. “Look at what Sugarman’s doing here--”

A groan from the stands cut her off. They looked up just in time to see Bucky scoot past a flailing Karl Morgenthau on his way into the endzone, and get shoved in by one of the linemen. The added momentum knocked him into a somersault, but he came up facing the stands, arms out like he’d done them a favor. The rest of the defense ran down and surrounded Bucky then they all threw their heads back and howled to a hail of rude gestures and obscenities from the fans in the Dawg Pound.

“I love this town,” Bucky yelled as he came off the field all bright smiles and high fives. 

Dugan laughed as boos continued to rain down on them. “Too bad they don’t love you.”

Bucky shrugged. “The people who matter love me.”

“Get your ass back out there, Barnes,” Fury snapped, putting extra weight behind his words to hide his own laughter.

“You got it, coach,” Bucky said with a wink and pulled his helmet back on to head right back out after Clint’s third kickoff in the game.

Playing like their hair was on fire wasn’t sustainable, and after the bang-bang of back-to-back touchdowns on both sides of the ball, the Browns seemed to settle into the game a bit. They at least stopped trying to air the ball out when Bucky was covering the primary receiver. Even still, he swatted down two more passes and Dugan and Morita had each notched a backfield tackle before halftime. Steve had settled the offense into their own rhythm as well, and a field goal in the middle of the first and a touchdown pass to Hopkins in the waning minutes of the second half slapped ten more points on the board.

“Told ya’ you could do it!” Sam said as they ran up the tunnel and into the visitor’s locker room at halftime.

“Game’s not over yet,” Steve said, memories of his own come-from-behind pushes making him leery of celebrating any sort of lead with a whole half still to play.

“Focus up!” Fury demanded when they all finally crammed into the locker room. “We’ve got 30 minutes to defend this lead. To make sure everyone in this stadium knows who we are and what we’re about.”

“What are we still about, Rogers?” Danvers asked with a tiny smirk.

“First first downs, ma’am,” Steve answered promptly.

Her smirk turned into a proud smile. “Excellent. Now, we’re making gains in the run game, but let’s take a look at how we can break it open.”

Breaking the second half open turned out not to be an issue. In an effort to adjust the pass coverage, T’Challa and Miller were left to run roughshod, with both of them racking up 100-yard-plus games. T’Challa had an easy 30-yard touchdown run on the second drive of the half that ended with him practically strolling into the endzone while the defensive secondary gasped in his wake.

Even when a play fell apart, the game finally felt like it was moving slow enough that Steve could see how to salvage a broken play. Just before the third quarter ended, Steve bobbled a snap down on the Browns’ 15, and with his focus on controlling the ball, the pass routes all started to close up. He looked, scanning his progression, and finally lobbed a jumper towards Scott in the back corner of the endzone. Lang came down with the ball, but the line judge signalled he’d only come down with one foot in bounds. Scott pelted down the field, swearing he’d been in bounds, and Fury pulled out his red flag, the words “stupid-ass call” making it to Steve where he stood on the near hash. Apparently, the replay booth agreed, and nearly five minutes later, Scott was awarded his touchdown.

Eventually, though, Morgenthau did figure out how to get a little something going on offense, and they put up a handful of field goals, but Bucky and the defense held them to only one touchdown. 

“You know who hasn’t scored yet tonight,” Bucky said as the fourth quarter was winding down.

“Who? Fury himself?” Steve flashed him a smile. 

“No, jerk. You.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “The three touchdown passes I’ve thrown would beg to differ.”

Bucky laughed. “Nothing like a keeper, though.”

Steve just shook his head as he retook the field with the rest of the offense, their instructions to slow roll this drive at the back of his mind. But when they’d still managed to push all the way down to the five, T’Challa brought it back up when Steve huddled them up for the play call.

“Keeping is an easy way to burn the clock and yet not necessarily punch in,” he pointed out.

Going under center made Steve nervous. Sure, the snap was harder to mess up, but he’d had a nightmare in high school once where his center and one of the defensive tackles had both fallen backwards onto him and crushed his chest. He’d woken up gasping for his emergency inhaler, and ever since, he’d hated it. This time, Volstagg snapped cleanly then he and Thor combined on a block that opened a decent gap just off the middle of the line. Steve made a run for the open grass, groaning as Gunderson and Sugarman both wrapped arms around him. He dug in and pushed forward, extending the ball in his tightly folded arms just that little bit further.

“Six touchdowns!” Scott howled as he helped Steve up and wrapped him up in a tight hug. “Six!”

“Well only five of them came on offense,” Sam pointed out.

“Hey, hey, spoilsport,” Scott shouted him down. He grinned at the Gatorade cup he’d just finished. “Orange...my favorite.”

When the clock finally wound down, and they flooded the field for postgame congratulations, Ana Akana, the ESPN sideline reporter gently steered him over to her cameraman. “Now, Steve, how was it starting your first regular season game in the NFL? And on Monday Night Football no less.”

Steve smiled, thinking of his younger self practicing this very question in the bathroom mirror while he’d brushed his teeth. “I’m not sure fourteen-year-old me would believe it.”

She laughed and swatted his arm like he was some great comedian. “The offense looked much more cohesive this week. What can you tell us about that?”

“It’s a team effort. Every down of every game. Fury’s got a great game plan for us every week, and everybody buys into it, so then, naturally, everybody produces.”

“Thanks, Steve, enjoy your win.”

“Thank you.”

The turnaround after a game went, in Steve’s opinion, delightfully fast when they were on the road. In less than an hour they were completely finished with the media and back on the team planes taxiing down the runway to go home. Steve stretched out across a pair of seats, his sketchbook in his lap. He tugged his phone out for some music, but the text on his lockscreen caught his eye.

> _ Can I come over when you get home? We should celebrate. x _
> 
> _ Of course. We should be home by midnight. x _

~~*~~

“Can I tell you how glad I am that tomorrow’s our day off?” Sam asked as they turned onto their street.

“Home at midnight up at 6AM not your thing?” Steve asked idly. He pointed out a parking space less than two houses down from theirs, and Sam swerved in.

“A win like that and a parking spot like this? I oughta buy a lottery ticket,” Sam glanced over at Steve with a grin.

“You should,” Steve agreed. “Or call the receptionist at your dentist.”

Sam nodded over at the front stoop. “Speaking of…”

Tony Stark lounged on their front steps poking idly at his phone and looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. Steve paused getting his bag out of Sam’s trunk and just looked. Tony smiled down at his phone. Double tap. Swipe. Tap. Smile. Just a little half lift of his lips. Like he knew a delicious secret. As they got closer, he could hear the tinny murmur of Joe Tessitore’s voice coming out of Tony’s phone.

Steve slid onto the step next to Tony and leaned into his shoulder. “What’cha watchin’?”

Tony turned that sly little half smile on Steve and tipped his phone. An invitation for Steve to fall further into his orbit. “Just some highlights. Apparently you were scoring left, right, and center tonight.”

Before Steve could open his mouth to reply, Sam’s legs brushed between them. “You two are gonna get eaten alive by the mosquitos if you just stay out here.”

As if on cue, Steve slapped away a mosquito that had landed on his arm. He stood and offered Tony his hands. Tony took them, his own hands warm and steady, and let Steve lever him to his feet. Once he was standing, though, he didn’t let go, sliding an arm around Steve’s waist and slipping his hand into Steve’s back pocket.

Sam rolled his eyes and jammed his key in the lock. “Dude, I watched you score four times tonight. That’s enough for me.” 

Once they made it inside, Steve turned to lock up, and Tony plastered himself along Steve’s back, mouthing idly at his neck. “Tony, give me a second,” Steve scolded gently as he fumbled with his keys.

“I’m going to bed,” Sam paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Don’t be louder than my white noise machine can handle, please.”

“We promise, Sam,” Steve repeated, trying to push some play calling authority into his voice. Tony just hummed and pressed himself closer into Steve’s side.

“That does not inspire confidence,” Sam muttered.

Steve pinched Tony, making him jump. “Promise,” Tony mumbled against Steve’s skin. He didn’t sound at all invested in any sort of follow through.

“Goodnight, Sam,” Steve tried.

Sam just waved over his shoulder with a resigned laugh.

Once they were alone in the foyer, Steve kicked his suitcase towards the wall and wrapped both arms around Tony’s waist. “This is some welcome home,” he said and kissed Tony properly. Let himself sink into the feeling of Tony’s slightly chapped lips under his own.

Tony slid his free hand into Steve’s other back pocket and squeezed slow and torturous in a motion that felt like it shuddered through Steve all the way down to his knees. “You looked...holy Jesus...I’m glad I watched the game in my office with the door locked, let’s just put it that way.”

Steve laughed and cocked his head a little to look at Tony out of the corner of his eye. “Are you...are you serious?” He ran his hands up under the hem of Tony’s sinfully soft Avengers T-shirt.

Tony winked up at him. “I’d never joke about this ass.”

“Come--” he kissed Tony again then hooked his first two fingers in the waistband of Tony’s jeans and started tugging him towards the stairs. “Come upstairs. I don’t wanna make out with you in the foyer like you’re about to run out on me.”

“Gladly,” Tony agreed. He tugged himself closer by Steve’s belt with a grin then slipped the first button on Steve’s shirt out of its hole. “This is coming off, please god.”

Steve stepped just out of Tony’s reach and started backing up the stairs. “Come get it if you want it,” Steve teased from halfway up the stairs before he turned and sprinted for his bedroom. Tony’s feet on the stairs behind him made him laugh, carefree and happy as he dove for his cracked bedroom door.

Tony caught him around the waist just inside and slung him down on the bed. They both bounced on the mattress then Tony rolled him over and pinned him with his legs on either side of Steve’s hips. “I have something for you,” he said as he started unbuttoning Steve’s shirt with intention. 

“Please tell me that’s not how you segue into getting your dick out,” Steve begged, sliding his hands up and down Tony’s thighs. He dug the heels of his palms in on the way down and Tony shivered. 

Tony parted Steve’s shirt around his chest then leaned up and fished in his pocket for a moment before he produced a tiny ziplock bag. Four navy blue buttons floated inside. “I did promise.”

Steve laughed and sat up, shaking off his shirt then tugging Tony back into his lap. “And right now is the time to bring that up?”

“There’s just no pleasing you,” Tony groused with mock affront. “Don’t lose my buttons. Why are you giving me my buttons?” He sighed. “You’re so--”

“Tony?” Steve cut him off with a kiss.

“Mmm?” Tony hummed and pressed back for another kiss.

“Buttons later.” He pulled Tony’s shirt over his head and off. “Gratuitous nudity now.”

Tony nodded, fiddling idly with the button on Steve’s trousers. He closed his eyes and shuddered as Steve’s fingers skated up his torso, tripping over his ribs and trailing out over his chest. “I can--oh Jesus keep doing that--”

Steve glanced up from where he was watching himself rubbing Tony’s nipples in slow, lazy circles. He stopped. “What? This?”

Tony shoved him back onto the bed with a laugh, and Steve just grinned up at him, eyes bright. “You know exactly what, you little shit.” 

Tony stood back up and unbuckled his belt and started inching his jeans down over his hips. Down to a pair of sleek boxer briefs, Tony started crawling up the bed after Steve who had wriggled up the bed, letting the drag of his pants against the sheets pull them off for him.

Steve spread his legs wider, smiling as Tony insinuated himself between them. Tony crawled up the bed after him, leaning down to flutter kisses up Steve’s legs. Steve shifted, restlessly sensitive under the featherlight press of Tony’s lips, until Tony bit the inside of his thigh. Steve settled into the low pulse Tony’s teeth left behind with a sighed “Tony.”

“Missed this...missed  _ you. _ ”

“C’mere,” Steve mumbled, reaching for Tony’s shoulder, his fingers gone clumsy with desire.

Tony finished slinking up Steve’s chest and kissed him, warm and wet. A hint of teeth had Steve arching into Tony’s arms with a soft groan. 

“Jesus,” Tony swore. “The sounds you make should be outlawed.”

“I--” he threw his arm back, groping blindly for the nightstand. “Lube. Wanna feel you in me, Tony, please.”

Tony grinned, a bright flash of teeth. “Your wish, hot stuff.”

Steve laughed as he pressed the little bottle into Tony’s hand. “Don’t even--mmm-- know what to wish for…” 

“That’s okay,” Tony murmured. “I can just…let my fingers do the walking.”

Steve stretched his arms out on the bed as Tony pushed in, the soft sensation of the sheets sliding down his spine as the stretch of Tony’s fingers inside him rolled up. 

“God, just look at you.” Tony flexed his fingers, and Steve shuddered at the spark of sensation. 

“Feels so  _ good _ ,” Steve slurred. “Feels like…”

“Like...?” Tony pushed.

“Mmm,” Steve hummed, his eyes gone hazy. “Like  _ feeling _ .” 

Tony laughed, soft and easy. “Closet hedonist.”

He slid his hand up Tony’s arm, squeezing gently at the lithe, powerful muscles hidden under perfectly tanned skin. “I...can I…”

“Anything,” Tony offered.

“Wanna ride you.”

Tony rolled, tugging Steve until he was straddling Tony’s waist, then eased his fingers back in. “I’m definitely gonna need to see that.” 

Steve shuddered when Tony twisted his wrist just…”Tony right  _ there _ .” He took a shaky breath, trying to force coherence. “I--I’m ready…”

He ran his hand down Steve’s side, smiling when Steve jolted, ticklish, at the touch. “Are you--”

“If you have plans to put your dick in me, Stark, you will not ask that question,” Steve said.

Tony rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he accepted the condom Steve pressed into his hand. “ I was  _ going _ to ask if you were sure. But, sure, let’s focus on the tickling thing.”

“Let’s--” Steve gasped as he sank back. “Let’s n-not...”

Tony grinned up at him. “If you insist.” He gripped Steve’s hands and adjusted his position until Steve sank all the way back with a low groan. “There it is.”

Steve shifted minutely, trying to get used to Tony from this angle. He closed his eyes and rocked his hips experimentally, then gasped when he got an angle he wanted.

Tony’s fingers on his lower lip made him open his eyes. “Jesus Christ, that face is indecent.”

Steve sucked Tony’s fingers into his mouth, humming his pleasure around them when Tony moaned and thrust up to meet Steve as he rolled his hips down. 

“Don’t make promises with that mouth you don’t intend to keep,” Tony gasped as he ran his free hand down over Steve’s stomach to circle his hand idly around Steve’s cock, giving him some friction whenever he’d rock forward.

The dry drag of Tony’s hand against his cock in contrast to the smooth glide of him inside Steve made him shudder, the heavy pressure of his orgasm gathering low in his gut. He let Tony’s fingers slip out of his mouth. “‘S not--Close…”

“Yeah ya are.” Tony gripped Steve’s hip with the hand Steve had finally turned loose and guided him into a deeper rhythm. “Lemme see that o-face.”

Steve almost laughed. Who the hell said o-face in real life. He couldn’t hold onto the thought though. The push-pull of Tony guiding him coupled with the sharp flash of pleasure when he swiped his thumb over the head of Steve’s cock had his stomach clenching as he spilled over Tony’s hand. 

Tony closed his eyes and started actively chasing his own release. Steve swirled his fingers through some of his own come on Tony’s abs and went back to playing with Tony’s nipples. “Jesus fuck,” Tony groaned as he curled up into Steve’s hands and came, the pulse of his orgasm making Steve shudder in his own right.

Tony panted under Steve for a moment, tracing the lines of muscle in Steve’s folded legs as he came down, and Steve kept dragging his fingers through the come on Tony’s stomach. 

“You are a menace,” he finally grumbled before he lifted to help Steve off his dick. 

Steve gasped and collapsed on his side next to Tony and watched him strip off the used condom and roll it up in a tissue. “That was…” Steve trailed his hand up Tony’s spine while he leaned towards the tiny trash can next to the nightstand then just flopped back down. Sometimes words just cheapened the thing.

Tony grinned back over his shoulder. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” Steve nodded, smiling lazily up at Tony.

“Well I’ll certainly take that,” he turned to look at Steve more fully. “Shower with me?”

“You’ve seen my shower, right?” Steve asked. “We won’t both fit in there without someone gettin’ a black eye.”

Tony dragged Steve up to sitting. “Come on, then. The sooner we get in, the sooner we get out.”

In the bathroom, Steve pulled Tony’s toothbrush out of the medicine cabinet and brushed his own teeth while Tony was in the tub. Once they switched, Steve scrubbed himself down quickly, smiling at Tony’s soft “oooh” over, presumably, finding his saved toothbrush.

Back in bed, Steve set his alarm for the decadent hour of 8AM, but stopped short just before he set his phone down. “What time should I set the alarm for you?”

Tony stopped squiggling down under the blankets to grin at him. “Whenever. I took tomorrow morning off.”

Steve nodded and finished settling down. Tony draped his arm over Steve’s waist and tugged Steve’s arm around his shoulder, patting his wrist when he got Steve’s arm exactly where he wanted it. 

“I’m glad you came over tonight,” Steve murmured against his temple.

The edge of teeth against his neck told him Tony was smiling in the dark. “You...you sure found your confidence.”

Steve hummed and tugged Tony closer, until they were skin to skin under the blanket. “I never…” he sighed gently. “I never thought…”

“Sex,” Tony mumbled into the silence that stretched between them. “You’re allowed to say it.”

Steve pinched Tony, making him jolt against his side. “I know.” He took another breath. “I’d always thought about…”

“Sex.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Sex. I’d always thought about it as...like...you can’t go back from sex. Once I’d had sex with another man it was...permanent, you know? It’d always be this  _ thing _ I’d done.”

Tony hummed, his voice slow with oncoming sleep. He sank heavier against Steve’s side, so Steve didn’t finish his thought aloud for fear of waking Tony, who seemed like he slept little enough as it was. The plain truth of it was, he didn’t  _ want _ to take it back. Sex with another man, sex with  _ Tony _ , made him feel good. Made him feel right.

“How’d I luck into you?” he whispered against Tony’s forehead as he closed his own eyes to try to get some rest.

~~*~~

Instead of the repeated chime of his alarm waking him up, Tony’s warm, soft lips pressing kisses into his shoulder tugged Steve gently from sleep. 

“Morning, MVP,” Tony murmured against his bicep.

Steve stretched against Tony’s weight on top of him, smiling when Tony went limp, pinning him down. “I feel like you lied to me about not being a morning person,” he needled as he ran his hands through Tony’s sleep-wild hair. 

“You make me go to bed stupid early, so then I wake up stupid early,” Tony replied, still attempting to map Steve’s entire torso with his mouth. “It’s stupid.”

“Childish,” Steve teased as he trailed his fingers lightly up Tony’s sides, laughing when he rolled and pinned Steve’s hand to the mattress. “Looks like I’m not the only one who’s ticklish.” 

“Plead the Fifth,” Tony mumbled.

Steve slipped his free hand under the blankets, his idle tracing taking on intent when the back of his hand brushed against Tony’s erection. 

“Don’t start something you’re not willing to finish,” Tony warned him.

“Seems--mmm--seems like you started it,” Steve said while giving Tony a slow, luxurious stroke from root to tip. 

“Holy--yeah--I guess that’s true,” he agreed and got a hand on Steve even as he rolled his hips forward into Steve’s hand. 

Steve arched up into the contact, the warm, lazy wake up already had him drenched in his own skin, and the feel of Tony against him was making him almost vibrate with the closeness. He leaned forward and kissed Tony, slow and wet, while he kept up the slow, torturous rhythm on his cock. 

Tony melted into the kiss, returning it but not pressing it any further, and time spooled out in an endless strand while they made out in hot, drugging drags of lips. Eventually, Tony came first, pressing up against Steve with a soft sigh before he relaxed, boneless, against Steve’s side. Steve smirked into their next kiss, pleased he’d made Tony feel that good. He didn’t rest long, though, rolling Steve onto his back and taking control of their kisses both with his position straddling Steve’s waist and with the nips of teeth as he left a line of kisses down Steve’s neck. 

“No visible marks,” Steve managed to get out.

“Course not,” Tony agreed before proceeding to suck an impressive bruise into the meat of Steve’s chest. 

They clearly had different definitions of ‘visible marks,’ but the thought wouldn’t stay pinned between the edge of teeth against his pec and the twist of his hand, Tony tipped Steve over into an orgasm that seemed to roll through him in waves that took forever to subside. When Tony finally released him, Steve tugged a pillow over his face to try to get his breathing under control.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Tony said smugly from just above Steve’s head.

“You should,” Steve said from under his pillow hideout. He let his arms and legs flop out gracelessly in all directions with a sigh as he heard Tony’s bare feet walking out, presumably towards the bathroom. “God, I was supposed to get up and go for a run this morning.”

“Can’t you count this as your workout?” Tony’s voice came back towards him.

“No, I’m supp--Jesus what is that?” Steve gasped as a wet washcloth on his stomach made him jackknife in on himself with surprise, dislodging his one-pillow fort.

“Oh calm down and unclench,” Tony scolded with a smile. Once Steve unfolded himself, Tony proceeded to clean him up with the cloth he’d brought from the bathroom. “Now what were you saying?”

Steve sighed. “I have to do an endurance workout today. Go for a run.”

“Sounds thrilling,” Tony deadpanned.

Steve shrugged up at him. “Dunno. I like running. Helps me think.” He smiled. “You can come with me. If you want.”

“I’m not fast,” Tony warned him.

“I’m no speed demon myself,” Steve agreed as he got up and started looking for running shorts and a shirt. 

“How far are you planning on going?” Tony asked even as he accepted the workout clothes Steve handed him.

“Just the 5K loop in Prospect. Plus the couple three blocks it’ll take to walk each way.” Steve looked up from tying his shoes. “Not too terrible.”

“I suppose I could join you,” Tony said with the air of someone bestowing a great favor.

Steve leaned over and smacked a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks for gracing me with your presence, your highness.”

“I’m still disappointed I missed the Rundown in July,” Tony said. He winked. “Gotta make up for it.”

“Oh, the truth comes out now,” Steve teased. “This all about my ass, Stark?” He stood and offered Tony his hand. 

“Your sparkling personality’s a part of it too, don’t worry,” Tony promised. He accepted Steve’s hand and let Steve tug him to his feet.

Steve nodded. “Figured. Well, come on, let’s get this knocked out,” he said then swatted Tony’s ass and ran for the stairs.

Tuesday mornings in the park were quiet, and now that it wasn’t Satan’s Armpit Degrees outside, it was pleasant to run outside. A mile into their run, Steve realized Tony ran like he did everything else, meaning, with a surprising amount of efficiency he seemed distressingly quick to dismiss. 

“How’d you do it?” Steve asked as they passed the zoo on their final stretch, dodging a couple elementary field trips.

“Do what?”

“Reel back in whatever was going on with you when you bought the team.” Steve shook his head down at his feet pounding on the pavement. That had been a wild year. If Tony wasn’t on CNN, he was on ESPN or TMZ. Sometimes all three at once.

“Stopping dying did wonders for my mental health.”

Steve stumbled. “You what?”

“Stopped dying.” 

Tony huffed a laugh when Steve just blinked at him then had to jump out of the way of a lady walking with a Boston terrier that insisted on zooming from one extreme of her hot pink leash to the other until she noticed Steve and tugged her owner over to demand pets.

“Hey, dollface,” he murmured and leaned down to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

The little dog wagged her whole hind end and grinned up at him, and her owner just blinked at him for a moment before spluttering, “I--I saw you on TV! You were  _ amazing _ !”

Steve glanced up at her with a small smile. “Well, thank you.”

She blinked at Steve a couple more times before tugging on her dog’s leash. “Come on, Junebug, let’s let Mr. Rogers get back to his run.” Junebug accepted a final scritch from Steve before she listened to her owner and they trotted off down the trail.

“You are something else, you know, that Rogers?” Tony teased as they turned to start their walk home. 

Steve laughed. “How d’you figure?”

“Hey, dollface,” Tony mimicked, batting his eyelashes up at Steve. 

“Jealous?” Steve asked.

Tony pouted up at him. “Insanely. I'm Completely overcome.”

“So tell me,” Steve said, circling back to their conversation that Junebug had interrupted. “How do you just stop dying? Last I checked no one gets out of this alive.”

Tony brushed his hand across the outline of the arc reactor under his shirt. “The initial design was...well, let’s just say Britney Spears would’ve been proud of me.”

“I don’t get it,” Steve admitted after a moment turning that one over.

“Toxic,” Tony said.

Steve laughed easily and slipped his hand into Tony’s as they skirted the edge of Army Plaza, bold as brass. “So while I’m definitely glad you stopped dying, I’m also glad you bought the team first.”

The smile Tony gave him in response could light up his whole, huge tower, and he squeezed Steve’s hand tightly. “Does this make me Jules Harbor?”

“That movie is so dysfunctional,” Steve said, shaking his head. “I don’t--you can just be Tony. That’s all I need.”

~~*~~

Later that afternoon, after Ms. Friday had shown up on his doorstep and hustled Tony off to a shareholders meeting he’d hoped to just skip when he’d taken the morning off, after he’d done the grocery shopping and meal prep for the week, Sam sat in the backyard with Steve while he put the finishing touches on the bike that were within his skillset. 

“New England this weekend,” Sam pointed out. He was sat in the wide swing sipping some of the sun tea he’d left out to brew while they’d gone to Cleveland. He poked at his phone for a moment then Al Green started playing on their bluetooth speaker. “Think we can take ‘em?”

Steve shrugged. “Want to try.” He glanced up from the bike. “Yesterday felt good. Felt like we were clicking.”

Sam nodded at the motorcycle. “How close is she?”

“Ready to go to someone with more skills than me,” Steve said from where he was cleaning up his tools. 

“What’s left?”

Steve consulted the list that lived in the little notebook in his tool chest. “Chrome, paint, new tires, and...that’s it. I’m--”

Steve’s phone cut him off. He wondered idly as he swiped to answer what Natasha could possibly need on an idle Tuesday after a clean win. “Hey, Nat.”

“Steve,” Natasha’s voice sounded deadly calm. “What have you been up to today?”

“I--not much?” 

“Let’s try this again. What’s going on with you and Tony Stark?”

A rock settled in Steve’s gut. “We--”

“Because he  _ looks _ like your boyfriend. At least, in the pictures of the two of you currently blowing up on both Twitter and Instagram he does.”

Steve closed his eyes, shutting out Sam sitting up like a meerkat sensing trouble. “That’s probably because he is.”

“Viral candid pictures are not the way to do something like this, Steve.” She sighed. “Don’t talk to anyone about this without me, do you hear me?  _ Anyone.  _ I’ll come to practice tomorrow and we’ll figure out a plan with the PR team.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“Be ready for an absolute shitstorm tomorrow, Rogers.” With that, she hung up on him.

Steve set his phone down carefully as if rough handling would somehow shake loose whatever strangers on the internet were saying about him. About what they thought they knew about him. 

“You okay?” Sam asked, leaning forward.

Steve shook his head. “I--someone took pictures of Tony and me on our run this morning.” He looked helplessly at Sam, begging Sam to contradict him. “I think I’m out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming back every update and leaving such kind, thoughtful comments. It makes my day whenever that email from AO3 pops into my inbox.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I told you waaaay back in chapter what-the-fuck-ever that NFL players are required to make themselves available to the media every damn day? I sure hope so :)
> 
> Since Heimdall doesn't have a first name...because when you're the all-seeing keeper of the Bifrost, how many Heimdalls could there possibly be, right, I dug back into my Old English materials from grad school and found the appellation for Heimdall that sounded the most like a modern first name and went with that.
> 
> Heeey, so I want to warn you about a couple things in this chapter. 
> 
> Steve mentions self-harm at one point, and while he's mostly joking, that's a really *really* dark thing to say. I read several articles and essays while I was working on this chapter written by former NFL players who came out after they retired and, to a man, they all described the deep depression of having to work so hard to stay closeted. This is a real issue among professional athletes, not only athletes who are struggling with their sexuality. Please feel free to skip from "'Oh, definitely,' Bucky agreed with a nod" to "'Hey, assholes,' Dugan shouted..." because your health and wellbeing is the most important thing.
> 
> Also, there's some derogatory language in this chapter. I don’t think it should really come as a shock to any of y’all that football fans can be some of the most toxically masculine folks out there, and that’s gonna come out (no pun intended) with Steve being out. If that’s the sort of thing you’re not a fan of, just skip over the Twitter segment. It’s just a little end-of-chapter artifact, so you’re not missing a lick of plot, no worries.
> 
> Betheflame and Kestrel337...y'all, I'm not even kidding about these two. They make this story snap.

**To:** 2019_Active_Roster, 2019_Coaching_Staff, 2019_Front_Office

**Cc:** 2019_IR, 2019_Practice_Squad

**From:** sharon.carter@newyorkavengers.com

**Subject:** Speaking with the Media 9/18/19

**This message was sent with high priority.**

Good Morning,

At this time, we are not offering any comment on the photos of one of our players currently circulating on social media. If a reporter asks you for a comment, direct them to the Avengers Media Office. I will address the active roster in a full-team meeting before football activities begin for today, and the notes from that address will be emailed to the wider organization by the time media availability begins at 1:45PM today.

Thank you for your attention in this matter.

Sincerely,

Sharon Carter

~~*~~

In an effort to not waste food, Steve didn’t even pretend to eat breakfast on Wednesday morning. He’d woken up more than an hour before his alarm had gone off this morning unable to get the Texas offense’s pre-National Championship shark movie marathon out of his head, so he’d gone downstairs to find his sketchbook to try to get himself in a workable headspace. Sitting at the kitchen counter, he sighed when he got to the last page he’d used and found the sketch he’d done of Tony in the mostly-assembled armor. On a clean page, he’d started in on a half-remembered scene from The Shallows while he sipped on a protein shake.

“Are those sharks?” Sam asked, tapping the edge of the page Steve was working on.

He nodded. 

“Seems a little...fatalistic,” Sam said.

Steve shook his head. “Bradley’s always an option.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Are you kidding? Fury said your head for in-game strategy made the Browns game such a blowout. Plus, Danvers knows you’re her dedicated little workhorse. They’re not gonna hang you out to dry on this.”

Steve stared at his hands while he tapped the eraser of his pencil on the open page. “Not everything’s worth the price.” He closed his sketchbook, threw it in his backpack, and stood to leave. “You ready?”

“I guess so,” Sam muttered behind him.

Outside, Natasha stood on their front porch waiting, clearly dressed for a front office battle in a razor sharp dress and a pair of heels that looked like she could easily use them as a weapon. “Ride with me, Rogers,” she demanded, tossing her head towards her Stingray and swinging the keys under his nose.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder as he squeezed past to head for his own car. “See you at the field, man.”

Steve trailed her to the Corvette in silence, determined to make her speak first. She shot him a sideways look before she gunned the engine and pulled smoothly out into the road. 

“I spent most of the night after I got off the phone with you on a conference call with Danvers, Fury, and most of the front office leadership,” she started. 

Steve nodded, his eyes fixed on the road ahead of them even as Nat jockeyed for position on the road like she’d lived in Brooklyn her whole life. “I figured.”

She sighed. “We need to present a united front on this because it’s not just that you’re gay. It’s--”

“Bi,” Steve muttered.

“What?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I’m not gay. I’m bisexual.”

“You’re dating a man. I don’t think Thunderbolt Ross is going to make that distinction when he’s talking about this on Sunday Morning Kickoff.”

“Well he should,” Steve snapped, suddenly mutinous. “Not that this is actually anyone’s business but mine. And Tony’s. And it’s only Tony’s because I’m dating him.”

Natasha groaned. “You’re not naive enough to think the networks will just let this go. I know this because  _ you _ were the one who asked  _ me _ to help you keep your mom’s death under wraps.”

Steve blinked hard against the sudden hot burn of tears, and when he spoke, his voice was sharp. “No. Do  _ not _ put this on me. I told you about her because you  _ demanded _ it. I was able to keep her to myself for a whole goddamn season just fine alone.”

“Steve, I--”

Steve shook his head, cutting her off. “Don’t. She’s not... _ leverage _ you get to hold over my head to make me do what you want. Nor is Tony. This isn’t some chess game.”

“Don’t make me the bad guy here, Steve,” Natasha snapped. “I  _ know _ you know how many professional athletes in the big four are openly out, so do not tell me you thought this would stay under wraps. Especially if the guy you go after is Tony Stark.”

Steve curled down in his seat and grumbled, “Please make me sound as predatory as possible.”

Natasha flicked him hard in the bicep. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“That’s not what happened anyway,” Steve said to the orange lights of the Holland Tunnel flashing past.

Natasha took Steve’s offering for the de-escalation he intended. “So how did you two meet? I didn’t think you’d seen him after you left the Draft Night presser.”

Steve shrugged. It suddenly felt silly to say out loud. 

Nat reached over and poked his hand where it was laying on his thigh. “Come on, Rogers, if you don’t tell me, I’m just going to assume he swooped down in the Iron Man armor and carried you off like Snidely Whiplash.”

“No, it wasn’t like that.” He tried to think of some way to describe his relationship that didn’t make it sound like he was hoping Tony would pin him before the homecoming dance. “It wasn’t anything extravagant or whatever. Lunch. A milkshake. A scary movie and dinner for my birthday. Little stuff like that. He’s...he lets me feel fun.”

Natasha smiled at him. “If I had room in my heart for fun, that would be nice.”

“Bucky’d show you fun,” Steve mumbled.

“What?”

Steve shook his head. “Nothing.” He tried on a brave face, surprised by how natural it felt. “So how’s this gonna go today?”

“Good news first, no one wants to bench you,” she said. “Fury and Danvers lost their collective shit when Potts even mentioned it. They said they’d lose a third of their playbook if they had to start Bradley over you.”

“‘S nice to hear,” Steve said, blushing lightly at the implicit compliment. “What’s the bad news?”

“Every network with any sort of significant sports reporting is going to be here today, and probably for the foreseeable future.”

“So media’s gonna be a nightmare,” Steve confirmed. 

Natasha lifted a shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Sharon said she’d start with a briefing for the whole active roster first thing, but Steve, it’s the middle of September. You’ve built a rapport with a lot of guys on this team. They’re not going to suddenly ice you out.” She whipped into a spot in the parking lot and killed the engine. “I’m gonna hang around for you today.”

He frowned. “I don’t need--”

“Don’t worry, I’m not there to be your mommy.” She patted his arm. “You probably won’t even notice me after Sharon’s briefing. But you’re one of my clients, so I take care of you.”

Steve finally offered Nat a real smile. “Thank you, Natasha, really.” 

He glared out the front windscreen at the clutch of reporters milling around the entrance to the practice facility. “I won’t have to talk to them out here, will I?”

“They’re probably hoping Sharon will release extra media seats at the on-field practice today, so no.” Nat shook her head. “We need to get out though. Image management is everything now.”

Steve nodded once, grabbed his backpack, and opened the door. “Let’s do this.”

The slam of their car doors caught the ear of one of the reporters, and he turned, clearly hoping to catch their eye.

Nat’s hand on his elbow was the only thing that kept Steve from bolting. “Don’t run, walk,” she murmured. “First rule of avoidance is to remember you’re on  _ your _ schedule, not theirs.”

Steve nodded and forced himself to keep pace with Nat’s unhurried gait. A hand on his shoulder made him jump.

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky came up along his other side with a grin. He tossed Natasha a wink. “Hey, gorgeous.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, but she did smile at Bucky too. “Barnes. Are you keeping out of trouble? Staying healthy?”

Bucky flexed his arm, still encased in the brace. “Doin’ my best. You doin’ alright?”

“I’m making ends meet,” she answered.

“Hey, Stevie, have you started watching any film yet of the New England defense?” Bucky asked right as they got to the sidewalk in front of the building.

Steve nodded, grateful for the excuse to focus on Bucky and not the click of camera shutters and the voices calling “Mr. Rogers” and “Steve.”

“A few guys from their secondary, The Wrecking Crew, were a part of that headhunting investigation in New Orleans a few seasons ago, and they landed on their feet when George Tarelton signed them. Dum Dum and I want to do lunch this week with you and Sam and Scott so we can do some preventative prep.”

Steve nodded and tried to put all his thanks into his reply. “Sounds good.”

Peter met them just inside, his normally chatty personality much more subdued. “H-hey, guys. I’m sure you saw Ms. Carter’s email, but just in case you didn’t, we’re starting in the whole-squad meeting room right at 8.”

Natasha squeezed Steve’s elbow. “I’ll be here. Text me if you need me. Don’t worry about bothering me. I work for you, remember.”

Steve nodded then let Bucky steer him down the hall towards the locker rooms. 

“You doin’ alright?” Bucky asked. “I mean, really?”

Steve shrugged. “I guess so. It’s probably good I’m not on Twitter so I can’t get on there and just scroll through comment after comment from people who think they know me.”

“Oh, definitely,” Bucky agreed with a nod.

When Bucky turned him loose, he found Sam already changed for the day and sitting in front of his locker instead of his own, he rolled his eyes. “Are you guys afraid I’m gonna slash my wrists or something if you leave me alone?”

“No? Should we be?” Sam asked, sliding onto the seat in front of the next locker over.

“Ask me again at the end of the day,” he said.

“Hey assholes!” Dugan shouted, silencing the entire locker room and even making the trainers poke their heads out of the medical suite. “Papa Fury said to bring your tablets to Carter’s meeting.”

“How did he get voted in as a captain?” Sam asked, and Steve just laughed.

Sam and Bucky steered Steve to a seat halfway back and on one of the aisles, and Steve felt a sudden and intense rush of gratitude for their friendship. Once they’d all piled into the meeting room, Fury stared them to silence. 

“This shouldn’t take long, and then we’ll get down to business.”

“To defeat the Huns,” Bucky said quietly to a scatter of titters.

Fury glared up at them. “Care to share, Mr. Barnes.”

“No, sir,” Bucky said with an exaggeratedly chastened expression.

Sam reached over and thumped Bucky in the thigh. “Eddie Haskel.”

“As I was saying,” Fury continued, levelling one more glare at Bucky. “Ms. Carter needs to have a word before we get started on our work for this week.” He glanced back at Sharon. “Are you ready, Ms. Carter?”

She nodded. “Thank you, Coach.” She smiled up at them. “I don’t want to take up much of your time, so we’ll keep this simple. Over the weekend, speculation has arisen about one of our players and his personal life.”

A brief murmur rippled through the assembled players as, presumably, the ones who knew explained the situation to the ones who didn’t. Steve just stared down at his hands where they framed his tablet. 

She glared daggers at each and every one of them before she spoke again. “Let me be clear, a player’s sexual identity and all the prying that people seem to assume can come along with that are not a source of idle conjecture. Especially not with the media. If someone from a media outlet is asking you invasively speculative questions, this is not what our media time is meant to cover. Your options are to simply say ‘no comment,’ or to refer them to my team so we can say ‘no comment,’ Either one is fine, but, bottom line, this is not your story to tell.” Now that she’d said her piece, she smiled at them. “Now, what questions can I answer?”

Clint raised his hand. “How do we know if a question is invasive or speculative?”

“Put it this way,” Sharon said, clearly used to dealing with Clint Barton. “If it doesn’t directly relate to the game, it’s probably invasive.”

“Anything else?” When no one raised their hand or spoke up, she flipped the cover closed on her tablet. “Pietro’s already emailed you our talking points along with some reminders from Ms. Hill about our zero tolerance for harassment and bullying, but this is pretty simple, gentlemen.” She smiled at Fury. “Thank you, Coach.”

“One last thing before we get going. We’ll be voting to replace Fitz as captain early next week, so between now and then you should be thinking about who among you fits that role.” Fury nodded. “The Patriots are beatable. It’s up to us to show that. You have your schedule. Get to your first meeting by 9. Dismissed.”

Working through the whole team strategy meeting and then the offense game plan meeting allowed Steve to start to settle since for the next two and a half hours no one asked him anything that didn’t directly relate to the game on Sunday. Even still, he couldn’t help the nerves gnawing at the edges of his gut as he pulled on clothes for the field. His eyes snapped to his backpack when his phone vibrated with a sharp buzz where it pressed against the plywood of his locker.

> _ I’ve apparently devastated a major segment of the Avengers fanbase by snapping you up. x _

“In every possible sense,” he mumbled, stuffing his phone back into his bag without replying. “Hey, we need pads and helmets?” He raised his voice to call over to Thor and Volstagg who looked like they were engaged in some sort of bizarre arm wrestling in front of their lockers.

“Yeah,” Volstagg said then scowled at Thor when he pushed their joined hands over. “We gotta ramp up faster this week since we lost Monday to the game. But just carry ‘em. Jess’ll want to do flexibility with us first, and you can’t do that fully dressed out.”

Down on the field, the section of the stands roped off for the media was absolutely packed. All the local TV affiliates had sent a reporter and cameraman, instead of the normal, half-interested cameraman they usually sent to shoot B-roll for the sports anchor to talk over on the evening broadcast. The national broadcasters and cable networks had sent their sideline reporters too, and Steve thought he could even see a few reps from print and web outlets too.

When the offense split off to start position warmups, Carol caught Steve by the back pad still sticking out of his jersey. “Rogers, I need you to listen to me right now.”

Steve nodded and turned back to face her. The crossbars of his facemask pressed dully into his palms where he had it clenched in his hands. He couldn’t help but sneak a glance over at the packed media section

She grabbed his hands where they were wrapped around his facemask and squeezed them, making him turn his attention fully back to her. “In this organization and on this field, your football skills are what really matter. I know it’s easy for me to tell you ‘just ignore them and do your job,’ but--”

“I’d rather hear it from you,” Steve interrupted. “I mean, you…”

Carol smiled at him, blindingly honest. “Now you know why I’m the one telling you this. I was a Story when Nick hired me, but I did my job and the story changed. I’m not gonna tell you it’ll be immediate, but…”

“Do my job...change the story,” Steve repeated. He offered her a small smile. “Sounds easy when you put it like that.”

She let go of his hands with a final squeeze, and Steve made a conscious effort to unclench his grip from his facemask. He shoved his helmet on his head and trotted out to where the rest of the offense was waiting. 

Everyone, from Vindler Heimdall, the OC, down to the grunts on the practice squad all wanted desperately to beat New England, so he let himself fall into the rhythm of on-field practice. The game plan for the upcoming week wasn’t all that different from their plan for Buffalo since Fury believed in putting different muscles and skin onto similar skeletons when he could, so they ran plays for thirty minutes against the practice defense until Fury called for a break.

“How’s it going?” Sam asked, coming up next to Steve while he was refilling his water.

Steve shrugged. “New England’s gonna be tough, but Heimdall’s got eyes on every angle, it seems.”

Sam rolled his eyes and leaned in. “You know damn well what I mean.”

Steve fiddled with the lid of his water bottle. “It’s been fine.” He glanced up at the NFL Network reporter looking like she could eavesdrop on their conversation if she just stared at them hard enough. He smiled at Sam, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Want to go watch Clint bang out field goals?”

“Don’t think I don’t know you’re brushin’ me off, man,” Sam said, but he stepped aside to give Steve his escape.

Clint was knocking balls through the upright like he was at a shooting gallery at one end of the field, and Daniel Thomas was punching out punts going the other way to the alternate cheers and catcalls of their teammates. 

“You ever get your shirt back?” M’Baku asked as he and T’Challa appeared at Steve’s unoccupied elbow.

Thankfully Steve had already worked up a sweat, otherwise the ensuing blush would have melted his face clean off. “I--what?”

M’Baku grinned. “Your shirt.” He pointed between himself and T’Challa. “We all heard about that during the walkthrough--”

“And it was too much to hope you’d forgotten since that was a literal month ago,” Steve muttered.

M’Baku laughed, wide and boisterous. “Yep.”

“I haven’t seen it back at our place yet,” Sam butted in.

Steve rolled his eyes. “You the laundry police now?”

Sam held his hands up with a laugh. “I’m just sayin’.” He leaned over to them like he was confiding a secret. “It’s one of his Combine shirts.”

T’Challa’s smile was knowing. “He’s a real NFL partner, then. My combine shirt was the first thing my fiancee “borrowed.” I think it would take a court order for me to get it back now.”

M’Baku nodded. “One of our former teammates in Oakland has a wife who’s the same way, except she’s taken a couple of his shirts for their dog too.” He let his voice slide up into a falsetto. “Oh, it’s like he’s our baby.”

When Steve smiled at them, he finally felt like he meant it. “I’ll try to steal it back the next time I’m at his place.”

“You won’t succeed,” T’Challa warned softly as Fury started calling for them to reassemble. 

The second half of the on-field workout flew past as they dialled in their plan for the upcoming week, and by the time Fury turned them loose with a “we’ll pick this up tomorrow,” Steve felt almost normal.

“Media’s only 45 minutes today, and Sharon’s going to be enforcing that strictly,” Nat said as she fell in step with Steve on the way back to the locker room.

“A lot can happen in 45 minutes,” Steve pointed out.

“You were in Sharon’s briefing,” she pointed out. “Her rules about this apply to you just the same as anyone else.”

Steve stopped in the middle of the hallway and just blinked down at her. Until she’d pointed that out, it had literally never occurred to him that he didn’t have to talk about himself like this. “I--you--how did I not think of that?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” Natasha answered simply then she turned and started walking towards the locker rooms again.

“Hey!” he called after her, jogging to catch up. “That’s--”

“It’s fine.” She waved his gratitude off. “You probably spent the last 20 or so hours all twisted around on yourself, so it wouldn’t necessarily register, but that’s why I’m here.”

In the locker room, Steve barely made it to his locker before a half dozen reporters descended on him. He turned back from stripping his practice jersey off his shoulder pads so the equipment team could disinfect them and smiled at them with an ease he didn’t feel.

“Good afternoon.” 

“Mr. Rogers,” Christine Everheart jumped right in, “are you worried about distracting your team when they’re trying to prepare for one of the biggest opponents of the season?”

“Keep it simple,” Natasha mouthed from behind her.

Steve shook his head. “I don’t want it to.”

“But you can’t deny it’s a talking point,” she pressed.

“It may be for people who aren’t on this team. When we’re working, my personal life matters as much as anyone else’s, which is to say, I don’t let it stop me from doing my job to the best of my ability.”

He caught Nat’s eye over the shoulder of the reporter NFL Network had sent, and she nodded at him.

“Are you worried about this having a negative impact on your fanbase?” A man with a print press badge asked.

Steve smiled; he had Nat’s approval, so he’d run with the theme he’d created. “I’m concerned with being as prepared as possible for Sunday. We’ve got the defending Super Bowl champions on our radar, so if we can play well, we’ll make our fans proud to wear their Avengers gear.”

“Have these revelations soured your relationships with your teammates?” 

Steve sighed quietly, trying to think of how to say ‘hell no’ in a way that wasn’t completely rude while Dugan physically restrained Bucky from barging in. “I work with a group of men and women who are professional in every aspect of their work life.”

Thankfully, Sharon cut off the next question with “Ladies, gentlemen, we only have 15 minutes left.”

Once they were gone, Steve turned very deliberately back to his locker and started gathering up his things to get cleaned up for their afternoon meetings. Natasha patted his arm and winked at him as she left, which Steve had come to realize was nearly as brazen as a high five and a touchdown dance from her. 

“Murder is wrong,” he murmured to Bucky when he passed him on the way to the showers.

Bucky laughed. “How’re you calmer than me?”

Steve offered him a lopsided smile. “Don’t worry. I’m panicking on the inside.”

~~*~~

When they got home, Steve took dinner out of the slow cooker and went straight to the library to keep working through film. He propped his tablet up on the desk with his film notebook at his elbow; he refused to lose this week’s game because of lack of his own preparation.

After close to an hour, Steve felt himself losing focus, so he made a note about where he was leaving off and started scanning the shelves in the library, looking for a new book. He pulled a book of JC Leyendecker’s art off the bottom shelf of one of the bookcases and sat back against the edge of the bookcase and started flipping through the beautiful, full color prints. 

He stopped at a 1933 cover for the Saturday Evening Post called “Football Hero” and sighed. That guy looked about as isolated as Steve felt. He leaned up and tugged his sketchbook into his lap and clicked his pencil until lead came out. Thankfully he’d left the center of his shark meltdown from that morning empty, so it was easy to stick his own version of Leyendecker’s football player on top of a rock in the middle of those circling sharks. 

The soft clatter of Sam cleaning up the kitchen paused when he answered his phone then picked up again when he started talking quietly under the splash of water in the sink. 

“Hey,” Sam called in from the kitchen, “is your phone working?”

“It should be...I paid my bill.” Steve called back.

“Then answer your damn texts,” he snapped. His voice sank back to speak to whomever had called when he said, “he’ll call you back.”

Sam appeared in the doorway, and he just stood and watched Steve for a moment before he spoke. “Please don’t ignore Tony. Because when you do, he calls me.”

“I didn’t know what to say to him,” Steve admitted. “So I just...didn’t.”

Sam came in and sat down next to Steve then pointed at his drawing. “That’s not you.”

“Feels like it,” Steve admitted. 

Sam knocked his shoulder into Steve’s. “Then you better make that rock bigger and put Tony on it with you. And me. Nat too. And Bucky. And--”

Steve finally laughed. “Okay, okay.” He smiled at Sam and tapped his temple. “I’ll make the rock bigger in here.”

Sam just looked at him. 

“I promise,” Steve insisted. “I just...needed to process this.”

“And you should,” Sam agreed. “That’s my MSW talking, by the way, so you know it’s legit.” He nudged Steve again. “But you should also talk to Tony. He’s worried about you.”

“What do I even tell him?” Steve asked, mostly to himself, but if Sam had any ideas, he’d be happy to take them on board.

“Just be honest with him. Relationships are built on that honesty thing, I’ve heard.”

Steve glared at him.

Sam just got up, dusted himself off, and grinned. “Honest communication leads to functional relationships. It’s more likely than you think.”

Sam grabbed Steve’s phone off the desk on his way out and tossed it at him. “Call your man.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve waved him off.

Once Sam’s footsteps faded up the stairs, though, Steve just held his phone and stared at it. He knew he didn’t have the words to explain to Tony why he’d gone dark, but Sam had a point. Tony did deserve his honesty. The decision got taken out of his hands, though, when his phone started vibrating in his hands and Tony’s name started scrolling across the top of the picture of Tony working on the armor he’d set as Tony’s contact.

“Hey, Tony,” he said when he finally worked up the nerve to hit accept.

“Oh, hey, Steve, glad you’re not dead or anything,” Tony jumped all over him. “Not like I was worried. Especially after I spent half the damn day trapped in meetings and the other half chained to my desk trying to figure out what to do for the guest lecture I’m supposed to give at MIT on Friday only escape and find out you had to shoulder this whole thing on your own”

Steve sighed. He deserved that, he supposed. “It’s fine.”

“Is it though?” Tony was clearly on his horse about this now. “Four unanswered texts and three missed calls doesn’t seem that fine to me.”

Steve traced his finger over the veins standing out on the back of the football hero’s hand. The one reminder that the men under the helmets and shoulder pads were still mortal. “I--I didn’t know what to say. Or maybe how to say it? I don’t even know.”

Steve could picture Tony’s quiet smile when he said, “You know how much I love to talk, right?”

He laughed softly. “You do always seem to have the right line.”

“That’s much nicer than what Karen usually tells me,” Tony’s voice was warm down the line. “But my actual point was that I could have wheedled it out of you. Asked you questions to help you find the words.”

“I--I’m happy. With you. Do I wish this coulda stayed private? Hell yeah. But we’ve been pushed out of the plane now.” He smiled. “Lucky for me you can fly.”

Tony’s grin was audible. “Sure can, baby.”

Steve leaned back against the bookshelf, warmed to his core by Tony’s concern. He wanted to give him something back. Some sign of his trust. “I just...worry. I don’t want to drag the rest of the guys down, and this is something that’ll reach everyone. You know how the press can make a meal outta anything.”

Tony laughed. “I may have heard something about that.”

“So that’s it, really. I want our play to be what everyone talks about.”

“And it will be,” Tony said confidently. “It might take a hot minute, but it will be. I saw a few cuts from your time with the media today. You told them exactly what you just told me. And it sounded really good.”

“Thanks, Tony.”

“Hey, are you home or away this weekend?” Tony asked after they’d lapsed into silence.

“Roadtrip to Foxborough,” Steve answered. “Gonna try to knock off the defending Super Bowl champs.”

“So you know how I said I have that guest lecture at MIT on Friday?” Tony asked.

Steve nodded. “Sure.”

“How mortifying would it be if I came to the game on Sunday?”

“On what, a scale of one to ten?” Steve asked with a laugh as he closed up both the art book and his sketchbook for the night then started turning out the downstairs lights.

“Sure. Base ten seems pretty standard for emotional metrics.”

“Engineer,” Steve muttered.

“Artist,” Tony teased right back.

“Okay, so one to ten.” Steve agreed. “I guess it depends,” he hedged after a moment’s thought. “If you show up in a red thong and nothing else, then probably a 20 or so.”

“How about if I hang around in the box my old thesis advisor keeps wearing Scott Lang’s jersey but cheering for you?”

Steve wriggled down into the bed and hummed mock-thoughtfully. “Scott’ll be excited about someone who’s not Maggie or Cassie clearly there for him.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Tony growled down the phone, “but no matter whose jersey I’m wearing, unless it’s 12, I’m only a little there for them.”

“You’ll give a guy ideas talking like that,” Steve deflected weakly, even as he blushed, equal parts pleasure and embarrassed.

“Not the first time you’ve told me that,” Tony pointed out. “And yet you keep letting me ‘talk like that.’”

“I gotta go to bed, Tony, but think about if what I’m saying is a warning instead of a protest.”

Tony spluttered wordlessly on the other end of the phone for a moment before Steve huffed a quiet laugh. “Night, Tony.”

"You're a tease," Tony said. "I'll say goodnight for now, but I'm going to be waiting on the follow-through from that warning."

"You got it, gorgeous," Steve said before he tapped end on the call then checked his alarm and plugged his phone in for the night. Even though it was really only day one of forever, being out in the NFL hadn’t been the total disaster he’d feared.

~~*~~

**@Mrs_Steve_Rogers**

I cannot be the only one devastated that Steve Rogers is gay. What a waste. 😭😭😭

> **@touchdownavengers**
> 
> Who cares??? You ain’t had a chance wiht him anyway.

**@Avenge_This**

We’re gonna lose every fucking game now with a fag under center. Volstagg better watch his backdoor.

> **@FitzsBeard**
> 
> You are an absolute goddamn idiot. Dude can play, no matter where he sticks his dick. At least he’s not a wife-beater
> 
> **@Avenge_This**
> 
> He’s not a wife beater because he’s goddamn gay. Not sure he’s got the wrist strength to hit another dude and mean it.
> 
> **@FitzsBeard**
> 
> Do you hear yourself? You sound like a complete knuckle-dragger. Join the 21st century, you incel asshole.

**@BrooklynProud**

Puttin’ new emphasis on Brooklyn Proud today. Impressed by Rogers and his brass fuckin balls. 🌈🌈🌈

**@ThunderboltRoss**

As far as I’m concerned, leaving Steve Rogers in as a starter is a recipe for disaster. Let’s see Fury keep the focus on the game with this affair between the field and the front office going on. #Distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back to work in-person, but I'm still planning on keeping to my every-other-week update schedule. Good Lord willing.
> 
> Thank you as always for your kudos and comments. Your kind words and enthusiasm for this story make me so happy.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes:
> 
> *Rocks up a fucking *month* later with Starbucks* "What's up, y'all?!" And now for the ACTUAL notes...
> 
> “Doll i’ the Grass” is a Norwegian folktale about finding love in an unexpected place :)
> 
> I (Tony, but whatever) stole Romeo Crennel from the Houston Texans. Why, because I love the way he glares at his players over his little readers.
> 
> KUTX is one of the best (in my opinion) radio stations in Austin. I figured out how to stream it at my house, and y’all, I swear, I could feel my life improve.
> 
> Betheflame, Kestrel337, you're the blessing of my life. And Stella...Stella...you're getting thirst credit on this chapter because I wrote this smut *specifically* with you in mind.

By mutual agreement, Steve and Sam banned sports reporting from the house for the remainder of the week. Steve went as far as to turn off the alerts on his ESPN app too because if he didn’t hear or see what people had to say about him, it couldn’t bother him. Or, at least, it shouldn’t. 

They kept the TV on anything other than ESPN or NFL Network, which meant they ended up watching way too many episodes of The Office on Sam’s Netflix. Steve texted Tony a picture of the screen when Dwight decided to force the Dunder Mifflin team into a fire drill, and asked if that was how SI conducted emergency drills. Tony had responded with a GIF of Arnold Schwarzenegger as the Terminator flipping him off. 

In the locker room, no one gave any of the reporters the time of day when they tried to bring up Steve’s personal life. Clint had, for some reason, suddenly become profoundly deaf whenever Christine Everheart came sniffing around for a Steve’s love life-related soundbite, and Bucky had taken up glaring menacingly at anyone who insinuated Steve somehow couldn’t do his job because of who he was dating. T’Challa only had to stare blankly at two reporters before they gave up trying to get anything out of him. Thor just lapsed into excited Norwegian. 

Erik Selvig, the head of analytics, finally told them in the Friday data breakdown meeting that Thor had simply given the reporters a short re-telling of “Doll i’ the Grass,” much to his right hand woman, Jane Foster’s delight. Volstagg had laughed uproariously, grabbed Thor around the neck, and demanded to know who his doll i’ the grass was while Thor had made a valiant, but futile, effort to shove him off.

Off the field, Natasha had decided Steve needed a vaguely threatening red-headed shadow, so she’d started haunting the halls at the practice facility. From what Steve could tell, which admittedly wasn’t much, she spent most of the day hanging around with Sharon and her team, but she always turned up when the team broke for lunch. Steve apparently needed her most when he and Bucky were eating together because she’d appear, tray in hand, and sit between them, emailing and texting while they talked strategy. 

All this meant that by the time they flew out on Saturday, the Avengers had clearly built a wall, but they had built it around Steve. For his part, though, Steve was worn out. He’d played and re-played this week’s game so many times in his head, he felt both ready for anything and too tired of thinking about it to even want to play. 

“You’re gonna be fine, you know that, right?” Bucky asked as he slid into the empty seat next to Steve once the fasten seatbelt sign turned off.

Steve shrugged down at his strategy notes. “I don’t want to be the weak link.”

“I’m not gonna say for sure you won’t be because you and I both know that’s a bullshit promise I can’t make,” Bucky said. He leaned into Steve’s shoulder. “But everyone who’s seen you in practice this week knows you’ve been working your ass off.”

The strain of the week finally bled off when the Patriots kicked off and Steve got on the field for the first time since the story of who he was dating had broken. “Remember, these guys were Super Bowl champions  _ last _ year,” Fury told them in the last huddle before they took the field. “Contrary to what Tarelton thinks, his guys don’t just deserve a Lombardi because they pulled their pants on this morning. Go show ‘em that.”

They tried. Steve and Clint combined to jump them out to a quick 7-0 start by the midpoint in the first, with some solid looks in both the running and the passing games. Crennel gathered up the defense before their first stand and glared over his little half-sized readers as he reminded the defense that bend-don’t-break could get them out of all sorts of jams, but Bucky and his guys struggled to get into a rhythm, and Brady came out firing and they went into halftime knotted at seven. 

Steve stared at the first half numbers in front of him during halftime, trying to find something obvious that needed fixing, but the entire offense just read as...desultory...on the stat sheet. 

“I’m not sure what to adjust,” he told Carol.

She hummed down at the tablet in his hands. “Sometimes it’s not about adjusting, especially if you’ve got two teams who are evenly matched. Sometimes it’s about being ready to capitalize.”

The second half didn’t offer many opportunities to capitalize on much of anything. The offense started wading uphill through molasses as the Wrecking Crew clamped down on T’Challa in the run game, and the pass looks seemed to end in throwaways as often as they ended in positive yardage. On defense, the Howlies bent far enough to allow six more points on a pair of field goals. 

T’Challa’s frantic scramble for a touchdown on the first play of the fourth quarter squeezed the Avengers back into the lead by a single point, and Fury’s “Don’t piss away their hard work” kept the defense on track until the last thirty seconds. Brady unleashed a bomb to Edelman, where he’d broken away from Jones, and dove into the endzone, evading a final attempt at a shoestring tackle from Morita. 

Brady made straight for Steve at the end of the game and grabbed his hand in a firm handshake. “That was a great game, Rogers,” he said with a warm smile. 

“I--thanks,” Steve nodded, quietly touched that Brady had sought him out so directly. 

He clapped a hand on his shoulder. “We’re gonna have to watch out for you come November.”

Steve exchanged handshakes and pleasantries with a few other players before Dan Buckley from ESPN tugged him over to his cameraman. “Steve, how difficult is this loss today?”

Steve tugged off his helmet and offered Buckley a thin smile. “It’s tough to come into the defending champion’s house and knock them off. We had some good plays, but, you gotta hand it to the Patriots, they capitalized in some key moments.”

“And what role do you think the recent revelations about your sexuality played in today’s loss?” He pressed closer, angling his mic into Steve’s face.

“It--I don’t--”

“Rogers!” Carol motioned him over as soon as he turned his head. “Hurry up, Fury’s waiting.”

“Sorry,” he said, not sorry at all, and slipped out of Buckley’s grip.

He trotted over to the sideline and grinned at Carol. “Thanks for that.”

“You, more than anyone else, can’t be shy about growing some boundaries with those clowns,” she said as they turned towards the tunnel.

Steve nodded. “Natasha keeps telling me the same thing.”

Danvers grinned up at him. “She’s not wrong.”

By the time he finally made it back into the locker room, Fury was already in the post-game presser and most of the rest of the team were already cleaned up and dressed in travelling clothes. Steve wriggled out of his shoulder pads and pants, and Bucky snatched them all neatly out of his hands.

“Go get cleaned up. I’ll take care of this,” Bucky said with a smile as he started stripping Steve’s jersey off his shoulder pads. 

Steve loved stadium showers. No matter the facility, they all seemed to have been built the same way, with water pressure designed to strip skin, and the relentless pounding of the water allowed him to tune out everything else. He gave himself two minutes standing under the spray to wallow in the loss. He pictured every third-and-something that they didn’t convert and imagined what he could have done differently to make it happen. He pictured every drive that had collapsed just outside Clint’s range, keeping three more points off the board. When his two minutes were up, Steve sighed and opened his eyes. 

“Time for next week,” he told the blue and white tiles as he reached for his shampoo.

Scrubbed clean and still a bit pink from the hot water, Steve slipped back into the locker room and started redressing, thankful no one from Sharon’s PR team had come to drag him into media. 

“She’s lettin’ you off the hook,” Bucky slid into Steve’s periphery.

“She’s what?” Steve asked, not looking up from his cuffs where they were refusing to cooperate before he just gave up and started folding them back over his forearms.

“Carter,” Sam chimed in, like it was obvious. “She didn’t think you’d want a buncha talking heads dragging every single snap of the game under your nose. So she’s keeping it to coaches.”

Steve offered them a half smile. “She’s good at her job.”

Bucky grabbed his backpack and tossed his head towards the exit. “Let’s get out of here, Rogers.”

When they emerged from the players’ entrance to walk to their bus, a contingent of the Avengers fans who had made the trip up to Foxborough had lined the barricades, and as soon as they caught sight of Bucky, Steve, and Sam, they all burst into a raucous mix of cheers and calling for their favorite players’ attention.

Steve settled into his politely detached public persona and started aiming straight for the bus, hoping no one would get nasty about the loss. At least, not to his face. 

“Rogers...Rogers!”

Steve scanned the faces until he caught sight of a man in a color rush jersey with T’Challa’s number on it waving at them. He nodded and smiled.

“You played a tough game out there,” he called once he knew he’d caught Steve’s attention..

“Th-thanks,” Steve said, and he felt his smile slip into something more genuine. 

The man grinned and gave Steve a thumbs-up before the act of keeping pace with Bucky swept him along and into the team bus.

“That could have gone worse,” Steve said with a tired sigh as they finally settled into their seats for takeoff.

“Not that I’ve met  _ all _ our fans or anything, but we’ve got a pretty thick ‘n thin crew, especially the crew who travel.” Bucky thought for a moment then shrugged philosophically. “Plus, nobody wants to end up going viral for some asshole rant and lose their job and shit.”

“Don’t know that all that’s ever really  _ stopped _ anyone who thought they had something worth saying,” Steve argued.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Can’t you just let me have this?”

Steve grinned and shook his head. “Not likely.” He slipped in his headphones and pressed play on his KUTX Gems playlist then closed his eyes and let himself idly turn over a concept for a new drawing while he drifted.

Quite a while later, he cracked an eye open when Bucky tugged out one of his earbuds. “Thought you oughta know, you’re trending on Twitter.”

“Why?” he asked, voice still a little muzzy as he found his way back out of his own head.

Bucky waggled his head from side to side. “Depends. Some people think Tony’s the new Jessica Simpson since he was at the game and we lost.”

Steve rolled his eyes. Figured. “What about the rest of ‘em?” he asked.

“They think Tony’s cheating on you with Scotty,” Bucky said matter-of-factly.

Steve sat up straight and tugged out his other earbud like hearing something that stupid with both ears would change it. Make it less asinine. “You gotta be shitting me.” 

“Wish I was,” Bucky said, genuine regret coloring his voice. He tapped and swiped a few times then passed his phone over.

On the screen, Tony stood next to an older gentleman and a woman who looked like his wife and a man who twigged Steve’s recognition, even though he couldn’t place where he’d seen him before. The four of them looked to be mid-conversation, Tony gesturing animatedly to the man nearer his own age even as he clearly directed his words to the older man. Everyone apart from Tony had dressed business casual, suits and ties in team colors as a subtly tasteful nod to their individual loyalties, but Tony had opted to wear an Avengers away jersey with Scott’s number on the front. 

He looked so...vital as he told whatever story had captured his friends’ attention. It was different, seeing Tony in a jersey he’d bought himself instead of the jersey he’d given Tony, but he couldn’t help the desire that crawled up his spine like a spider that the 15 was a 12 instead.

Bucky reached over and gently swiped to the next picture. Tony was escorting the woman in their group towards the exit in the box, and it didn’t take any real effort to make out Lang emblazoned across the back.

“You realize this is idiotic,” Steve’s mouth said as he handed Bucky his phone back. 

Bucky nodded. “Sure I do. Scotty’s a rookie, same as you. Tony rotates through all the newbies’ jerseys during the season. He’s done it every season since the...second or third year he owned the team.” He sighed. “But you know--”

Steve nodded and waved him quiet. “I know.”

“This doesn’t mean--”

Steve shot Bucky a quelling look, silencing him. “I know  _ that _ too.”

_ “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re beginning our final approach into Newark, if you’ll stow…” _

Steve wound his earbuds around his phone and shoved it back in his backpack. “I never wanted…” he flapped his hand more pointedly in the direction of Bucky’s phone where it rested in his loosely closed hand. “I never wanted any of  _ this _ to become our team’s storyline.”

Bucky offered him a small, sincere smile. “I know, Steve. We all do.” He got up and leaned against the back of his seat and raised his voice to reach beyond the artificial bubble the white noise of the plane engine had wrapped around them. “Lang!”

Scott’s head popped up from his seat a few rows back. “Yeah, Cap?”

“You runnin’ around with Stevie’s man?” He demanded at volume.

“No, sir,” Scott answered immediately.

“Could you not?” Steve hissed, blushing as Bucky dragged everyone in their section of seats into his business. 

Bucky slid back down into his seat and grinned at Steve. “There you go.”

“Where I go?” Steve demanded, his blush still hot on his face, even as the knot of not-quite-jealousy unclenched in his stomach.

“There’s easily ten people who just heard that who all have verified Twitter accounts.”

Steve closed his eyes and counted to ten before he spoke again, forcing patience into his voice. “I really don’t want to get into a he-said-she-said with the entire internet over this.”

Bucky smirked. “You wouldn’t win anyway. The internet’s never wrong, don’tcha know.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t find it in himself to disagree.

~~*~~

All he wanted after a week like this one, Steve decided as he tapped send on his text to Tony then hustled up the train station steps, was to lose himself in Tony’s presence. He drummed his fingers idly against the back of his phone while he waited on the train and Tony’s reply, restless in a way he couldn’t quite pin down. This loss didn’t hurt the same as the loss in week one, and while this loss made him want Tony just as close as he had after week one, he wanted him in a different way.

> _ How inconvenient would it be for you if I come by? _

He slipped his headphones in and stared idly out the window, hoping Tony would want him just as close as he suddenly wanted Tony. The past week had felt unbearably long as he’d worked through it largely on his own with Tony bouncing between Massachusetts and New York with the run-up to his annual research grant presentations.

> _ How much emphasis are we putting on ‘come’? _

Steve smiled down at Tony’s shameless reply as the train rocked him into the city. He trapped his tongue gently between his teeth as he typed, the pinch of his incisors sharp and grounding.

> _ Much as you can handle. _

Tony’s reply bubbles popped up almost immediately. 

> _ Kicking Rhodey out the second J registers your biometrics on-site. _

Steve laughed.

> _ Flattering.  _
> 
> _ I’m holding you to that. _

Steve stepped out of the elevator and the man Steve recognized from the photos Bucky had shown him on Twitter pulled his hand back from the call button. Steve stared at him, still trying to place how he recognized this man when he spoke.

“Steve Rogers?” 

Steve nodded. “Yeah, that’s me.” 

He held out his hand with a small smile. “James Rhodes. Head of scouting.”

“Nice to meet…” he blinked, the placement finally clicking. “This isn’t the first time we’ve met, is it?”

Rhodes laughed. “Not quite. My team insisted I take an active interest in you after your interview in Indy.” He clapped Steve on the shoulder. “I must say I’m glad they did.”

Steve opened his mouth to apologize for the way he’d let the game today slip away from him, but before he could speak, Rhodes waved him silent. 

“No one who watched that game today could call what you did a subpar showing. You played 45 hard minutes. And this is the NFL. We keep score and not everybody gets a trophy.”

“Now…” he turned back and hit the call button, and the elevator slid open. He patted Steve’s shoulder one more time before he sidestepped into the waiting car. “I better let you get in there before Tones gets a suit and comes after you himself.”

“Have a good night, it was nice to meet you,” Steve said as he stepped into the elevator.

Rhodes nodded and waved before the closing doors hid him from view.

Beyond the entryway, the low murmur of the television led Steve towards the media lounge where Tony was sprawled on the sofa, fiddling idly with whatever was on his tablet while the Sunday Night Football Pregame Show came back from a commercial break. 

Steve watched Tony work for a moment before he went over and insinuated himself into the circle of Tony’s arms.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Tony said, his voice distant and unfocused as he pulled back from whatever he’d been working on.

“How’d your presentation go?” Steve asked. He melted against Tony’s side, keeping a loose eye on the Texans kicking off against the Titans while he traced the stylized “Avengers” across Tony’s chest. He let his fingers detour around the edge of the arc reactor when he hit the edge of the metal casing.

Tony hummed under him. “All these kids are gonna change the world.” 

Steve snaked his hand up under Scott’s jersey and scraped his nails up Tony’s abdomen. He shivered under Steve’s hand then arched into the contact. The soft clatter of the tablet hitting the ground preceded Tony trailing both his hands up Steve’s spine gently.

“Twitter had a thing or twelve to say about you today,” Steve murmured. He sat up, straddling Tony’s lap, and pulled Tony up after him then tugged the jersey over his head and off. He dropped Scott’s jersey onto the floor next to the abandoned tablet. 

“Mmm,” Tony flicked his gaze up at Steve with a smirk. “Lucky you and I know different, isn’t it?”

Steve dragged his hands back through Tony’s hair and nodded. “Lucky us,” he agreed lowly. 

“So tell me,” Tony shimmied up into Steve’s lap and started tugging his dress shirt open. “Tell me what Twitter’s saying about me  _ today _ .”

Steve laughed. “Nothing. Stupid stuff.”

“Oh, no no,” Tony shook his head down at Steve’s half unbuttoned shirt. “Can’t be nothing or you wouldn’t have come in here all clingy like you are.” He glanced up with a smile. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.” He tugged Steve’s shirt tails out of his trousers. “Come on. Share with the class.”

Steve ran his hands up Tony’s back and pulled him down into a kiss. “I--it’s...mmm…”

Tony huffed a laugh into the space between them. “‘Mmm’ sounds nice, but it’s not a real answer.”

“You...not...not Twitter,” Steve panted as Tony trailed nipping kisses down his neck. 

“‘M definitely not Twitter,” Tony agreed, dragging his hands up Steve’s chest and up under his shirt to push it off his shoulders.

Steve leaned forward and bit Tony’s chest, tongue swirling around Tony’s nipple as his teeth dug into the meat of his pec. His lips pulled back in a parody of a grin when Tony grabbed his hair with both hands and groaned.

Tony reeled himself back in and grinned down at Steve. “Who taught you to do that?”

“Why? Jealous?” Steve asked, examining the shadow of his teeth left behind in Tony’s skin.

“Good God no. I want to send them a fruit basket.” Tony draped his arms over Steve’s now-bare shoulders and resettled himself in Steve’s lap. 

Steve shuddered as Tony’s ass rocked smoothly against his cock. “Didn’t--ah--know fruit was the thank-you for getting laid.” Steve hooked his thumbs through Tony’s belt loops and wrapped his hands around Tony’s waist then rolled his hips up.

“Em--mmm--ily Post is pretty explicit,” Tony hummed. He grinned when Steve pushed his head into Tony’s wandering fingers, seeking more of the teasing trails he was tracing through the super short hair at the base of his skull.

“Explicit, hmm?” Steve quirked a smile up at Tony where he writhed on Steve’s lap. It occurred to him, in a vaguely pleasure-hazed sort of way, that it might be fun to learn how to give Tony a lapdance at some point. For tonight, he settled for squeezing Tony’s hips to refocus them both. “So how offended would you be if I picked you up?”

“Not at all...unless you call me your spider monkey.”

Steve frowned up at him. “I--I’m not sure what that means.”

Tony shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” He leaned in and kissed Steve. “Show me what you got, Hercules.”

Steve wrapped his arms tighter around Tony and pressed up with his legs like it was heavy squats day. He tugged Tony tighter against him and kissed him slow and wet, and Tony wrapped his legs around Steve’s waist. 

“Cage is getting the biggest raise I can afford,” Tony gasped into Steve’s mouth.

Steve chuckled low and soft as he started walking back towards the master suite. “Just don’t tell him why.”

Tony shook his head then pressed a kiss to the corner of Steve’s jaw. “Nope. No subtlety. Taking out an ad in the Times for this.”

“You’re insane,” Steve said with a laugh. He peeked over Tony’s shoulder then turned back to him with a quick kiss. “Trust me?”

Tony nodded. “Definitely.”

“Good,” Steve nodded and kissed him one more time then tossed Tony backwards onto his bed. 

Tony threw out his arms as he fell, flopping against the mattress to absorb most of the bounce. He grinned up at Steve, his eyes bright and flirtatious. “Hey, soldier.”

“Hey.” Steve tossed his head at Tony in a nod then started crawling up the bed after him, trailing biting kisses up his legs. He stopped just above Tony’s knees and grinned sharply up at him. “I wanna lay you out and wreck you.”

“I--okay,” Tony blinked hazily down at him. “Sounds good.”

“Glad you agree.” Steve smiled slyly down at Tony’s cock then flicked his gaze up to his face while he let his fingers wander in idle patterns over Tony’s hip bones. “So, I’ve been working on some things at practice…”

Tony wriggled as goosebumps followed the trail of Steve’s fingers. “Oh y-yeah?”

“Mmmhmm,” Steve nodded, still teasing his fingertips everywhere but where Tony clearly wanted them. 

“Care to...share?” Tony rolled his hips, silently demanding Steve touch his neglected cock. 

Steve grabbed his hips to hold him still, and Tony writhed against Steve’s hold but couldn’t break his grip. He dipped his lips closer to Tony’s cock and let his breath ghost across the head. “ _ Clock _ management.”

Tony shuddered when Steve’s tongue darted out to taste him. “You don’t say.”

“Mmm, I do,” Steve agreed lowly. He turned his next lick into a series of wet, sucking kisses.

“So…” Tony threaded a hand into Steve’s hair. Steve arched up into the spark on his scalp when Tony tugged and hummed around his cock when he pressed a telltale plastic bottle into Steve’s shoulder.

“So…?” He prompted, letting the head of Tony’s cock rest against his bottom lip while he raked his gaze up Tony’s body until he met his eyes blown wide and dark. 

Tony just fell back panting. “So how d’you do...do that?”

Steve shrugged against his thigh like it was of little real interest. “Depends,” he murmured and slipped a lubed finger slowly in. 

“Could be downs,” he sucked Tony’s cock exactly once, making Tony groan and kick him in the back of the thigh. 

“Could be sideline control,” he added another and laid his head on Tony’s thigh, watching his fingers move slowly in and out.

“Could be…” Tony agreed distractedly.

“Could be,” he twisted his wrist until Tony arched off the bed, “time in the pocket…”

“Could it be no-hudde?” Tony demanded, trying to curl into the feeling of Steve’s lips and hands.

Steve knelt up and ripped open a condom with his teeth then rolled it on and smirked down at Tony as he sank into him. “Could be.”

“God it  _ should _ be,” Tony groaned, letting his eyes slip closed. He wriggled down until he was fully seated in Steve’s lap, his legs slung loosely around Steve’s hips. “You feel amazing.”

Steve ran his hands up Tony’s thighs and pressed himself down and kissed Tony’s softly parted lips. “I think that’s supposed to be my line,” he murmured. 

Tony reached for Steve’s waist and scraped his nails down Steve’s back then smacked him on the ass. “I will pay you folding money to get that ass in gear.”

Steve shook his head and rolled his hips forward, making Tony arch his back. “Don’t gotta do that.” He thrust a few times, grinning when Tony curled his legs more securely around his waist. He followed the tug, letting Tony hitch him just that little bit closer. “Here’s the thing about clock management…”

“The thing?” Tony gasped, his gaze going a bit unfocused when Steve rocked in just right and grazed his prostate.

Steve thrust deep as he leaned in and caged Tony in the shelter of his arms, speaking low against his skin. “Doesn’t mean shit if you don’t use it to go out and get what you want.”

He scooped Tony up by the shoulders and settled him in the cradle of his lap. “You ready?”

Tony leaned forward and bit the corner of his jaw. “Show me what you got.”

The warm weight of Tony in his lap after a week of innuendo and speculation, after a day of whispers and rumor, made Steve a little feral. He thrust up sharply into Tony’s willing body, clutching Tony close when he arched forward and moaned “More” on his exhalation and giving him exactly what he asked for with a sharp snap of his hips. 

With Tony writhing down to meet Steve’s thrusts and doing absolutely nothing to break free of his grasp, it didn’t take long before Tony was mumbling “Close...God, Steve, I’m close” between messy kisses. 

“Show me,” Steve said as he reached between them to get his hand on Tony’s cock. “God, Tony lemme see you…”

Tony nodded fitfully and rocked into Steve’s grip, shuddering as his orgasm swept over him after only a few more thrusts. He bit down on the meat of Steve’s shoulder, making Steve shout his name and his hips juddered forward, slipping out of rhythm as his own climax overtook him.

“Gorgeous,” Tony breathed against his cheek. 

Steve wrapped his arms tighter around Tony’s waist and closed his eyes as he sunk into the warm haze of his brain and the warm weight of Tony’s body in his lap. He trailed his fingers up Tony’s back, smiling into his shoulder when Tony shuddered and tugged at Steve’s hair in retaliation. 

“Can I stay?” he asked, suddenly desperate to stay in the light of Tony’s attention as long as possible.

Tony brushed Steve’s hair back from his forehead, smiling when Steve picked his head up from his shoulder. He nodded. “‘Course you can.” He gently extricated himself from Steve’s lap then held his hand out. “Come shower with me?”

Steve followed him into the bathroom and into the shower that looked like Tony could easily host a cocktail party in it. He scrubbed down quickly then sat on the bench and watched Tony get cleaned up, the warm, humid air lulling him further until he finally just gave in and slumped against the wall.

“Do you have a late start again?” Tony asked from under the spray.

Steve shook his head against the cool tile. “Monday’s our off day this week since we’re playing on Thursday.”

“Who?”

Steve yawned around his answer. “Eagles. In Philly.”

Tony prodded him off the bench and out of the shower. “I don’t think I know anyone who’s got a box at The Linc…”

“You could probably just get a regular ticket,” Steve pointed out with a smirk after he spit out his toothpaste.

Tony shot him an incredulous look. “It’s like you don’t know me.”

Steve laughed and tugged him back towards the bed, both of them foregoing getting dressed. “I know you like mom ‘n’ pop Italian food and thrillers.” He curled into Tony’s side, letting himself get pulled close and wrapped up. “I know you like soft clothes and sleek metal."

“Well,  _ I _ know you like being barefoot in my house,” Tony said, the note of pride clear in his voice. That knowing this one thing about Steve trumped anything else. 

He sighed quietly. “I’d  _ like _ to know why you were so...something...when you got here, though.”

Steve shook his head. “It really is stupid. Being here with you pushed it out entirely.”

“If you say so.”

Steve kissed the skin in front of him softly. “I do.”

“Okay...” Tony agreed. He twirled a piece of Steve’s hair idly around his fingers as he slowly went boneless under him. 

“Missed you this week,” he murmured into the arc reactor, trusting it to keep his secret. Tony’s arms spasmed where they were slung around his shoulders, and Steve held his breath, hoping he hadn’t woken him, but he settled again with a quiet hum. 

Steve blinked slowly out the windows at the softly illuminated New York night, letting the time before he opened his eyes each time lengthen, until he finally let himself slip under.

Not needing an alarm in the morning meant Steve could wake slowly, so he did. He rolled slowly from his back onto his stomach, luxuriating in the slept soft sheets and the glow of the early morning city coming in the huge floor-to-ceiling windows.

“I could get used to this,” Tony’s voice and the waft of his coffee had Steve rolling his head over to smile at him. “Good morning, gorgeous.”

“Mmm...morning,” Steve hummed easily. 

Tony came and perched on the bed next to him and didn’t resist when Steve leaned up and stole a sip of his coffee. “So Philly.”

“Philly,” Steve agreed easily, laying back down.

“I’ll probably have to cheer for you from a bar inside the Beltway.” At Steve’s blank look he shrugged. “The chair of the Defense Committee wants to try to claim some sort of…” he waved his hand vaguely, “ownership.”

“You’re a private citizen and this is your IP...can they even do that?” Steve asked, baffled.

Tony shrugged. “Stern usually makes a run at it if his reelection’s not as sure of a thing as he wants it to be. He’s an idiot, though, so I’m not anticipating  _ trouble _ so much as a  _ hassle _ .”

He set his coffee down on the nightstand and tumbled down into Steve’s arms. “But I don’t want to think about that bullshit.”

Steve caught him, laughing as they tangled together. “Any preferences?”

“Mmm,” Tony gazed up at him through his eyelashes all wide eyes and false innocence. “Show me a good morning?”

Steve flipped them over then kissed Tony’s neck. First one side then the other. “I can make that happen.”

~~*~~

**Why the Avengers Will Be a One-Win Team**

By: Stephen A. Smith for ESPN

The distracted, disjointed performance from the Avengers in their week 3 game against the Patriots is indicative of what we can expect from them for the rest of the season. Fury may claim he has confidence in his rookie quarterback Steve Rogers, but with an off-field storyline overshadowing his on-field performance, it will be close to impossible for this team to settle into any sort of rhythm this season. Their week 2 win against the Browns was a win of opportunity. It’s easy to kick someone when they’re down, and the Avengers rolled into Cleveland and took advantage of a young team already dealing with injuries at a couple key positions. It’s not hard to see that the rest of the league will be coming to SI Stadium to do the same for the rest of the season...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My intention is not to go a whole-ass month between updates again. I'm catching the rhythm of my new hybrid work sitch, so I don't get home so tired all I can do is stare at the Astros games then stumble to bed when my "go to sleep, jackass" alarm goes on my phone.
> 
> Y'all who are reading this and leaving comments and kudos and telling me how much you love this give me life and so much happiness. This is such a great group of fans to write for, y'all, I swear.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes:
> 
> In this universe, The University of Texas still plays Texas A&M on Thanksgiving Day. Why? Because I need Steve to have Thoughts about out-of-normal schedules. And maybe (just maybe) because I miss the UT/A&M game.  
> Please accept my humble weight room handwaving.  
> Every team, it turns out, does their captaincy different ways. Some have a core group and then rotating additional captains. Some have set captains and that’s it. Some rotate their captains by week. And just like the initial selection differs by team, so to do the policies about replacing a captain with a season-ending injury.  
> Jerry Jones was adamant that his players stand “toe on the line” when Kaepernick started protesting during the anthem or he would fire them. So, you know, a real class act *side eye*  
> Please be aware there’s some homophobic language in this chapter. This is a real-ass part of sports, unfortunately, but for me part of quality storytelling lies in the verisimilitude of the scene. If this is something that makes you uncomfortable, skimming/skipping the actual game against Dallas is your friend.  
> Oh, yeah, a safety is when you get tackled in your own endzone. Your opponent gets two points out of it.   
> Additionally, yes, I am aware that literally no pro team says what they’re going to do in real people words while they’re in the huddle. But what the fuck does “Hulk double stack” mean to you? Nothing, right? Also, yes, the quarterback has a radio in his helmet. 
> 
> Y'all know this drill by now. Betheflame and Kestrel337 are amazing human beings who make my writing infinitely better. A special thanks to JehBeeEh for helping me out with "hey, is this too football jargon-y?" this go round. Y'all all deserve a Walter Payton patch on your jerseys.

Phillips had told Steve once that he hated the Thanksgiving Day game against A&M the worst out of the season. Not because of the rivalry. He’d also been the one who’d told Steve that rivalries made the game worth playing year after year. No, Phillips had said he hated the Thanksgiving Day game because it was a short-rest schedule. 

When the clock hit zero-zero on Thursday night, and Philadelphia won 17-9, Steve could definitely see where Phillips was coming from. Everything had felt a step and a half off all night, from missed assignments, his first sack as a pro hadn’t felt great, to failed reads, his first interception had felt worse, and the result had been a Philly team that had run roughshod over them on both sides of the ball. 

“And we got the Pats coming to our house on Sunday,” Bucky had griped as they boarded the plane for their quick flight home.

Steve buried himself in the last row with his tablet and headphones reviewing film and breakdowns from the past two games, writing notes on the plays he’d already drawn out and broken down and adding new ones.

> _ Sorry I couldn’t make it. Bet you were something. x _

Steve sighed. Tony was trying. He shouldn’t ignore that. 

> _ It was...something alright. How was Armed Services? _
> 
> _ I get to bless them with my presence for at least another day. Pretty sure whoever convinced Stern I’d be willing to give up my armor is a few ants short of a picnic. _

Steve smiled tiredly down at his phone.

> _ Good luck tomorrow. Your suit is your baby...I know you’ll give em what-for. x _

He slid his phone back into his bag and went back to his film.

~~*~~

_ “Look, look, the real question is this...do the Avengers want to win? They’re clearly more worried about offending delicate feelings by keeping Rogers in the starting job when he’s obviously not getting it done. They have a perfectly good backup with Bradley and a long week to get him ready. Give him a shot. He’s a veteran. He’s played in this league. Let him try to rescue this season for them because at this rate, the Avengers might as well kiss the postseason goodbye. _

_ Just a thought to ponder while we hear a word or two from our fine sponsors. When we come back, we’ll take your calls, Avengers Nation.” _

~~*~~

“One damn touchdown,” Steve snapped and slammed his helmet down in his locker. 

“We knew Brady and his crew weren’t gonna give us much,” Sam pointed out in his best ‘I’m a reasonable friend and you should listen to me’ voice.

Steve rolled his eyes down at his hands where they were fighting to get the belts on his shoulder pads loose. “Not like I tried to take much myself either.”

“Quit that,” Bucky slapped Steve’s hands away and started unbuckling the belts himself. “You look like someone put itching powder in your pads.”

“But I--”

Bucky shook his head. “But nothin’. You played a respectable game. We were net zero on turnovers…”

“And the one turnover we  _ did _ have was on special teams,” Sam jumped in to add.

Steve slithered out of his pads while Bucky held them still. “Doesn’t matter. Outside perception says I’m the reason we’re losing, so I’ve gotta fix it.”

“He knows...he knows he’s not the only one who’s responsible for that?” Sam’s voice followed him into the showers.

Too bad the all writers, commentators, and fans howling for his replacement didn’t see things Sam’s way. 

When they made it back to the house that night, Steve’s newly finished motorcycle was sitting on the back patio waiting for him along with a note from Tony.

_ The VA is going to take longer than I thought and the Seattle facility wants to do a meet and greet on Friday.  _

_ I should be able to make it to the game in Dallas.  _

_ Call me when you can. _

_ Tony xxx _

Steve took the note upstairs and tucked it in his nightstand drawer next to the ticket stubs from their trip to Coney Island when they’d spent the day playing boardwalk games and laughing that aviators and baseball hats were enough to hide them from recognition. Instead of calling, though, Steve pulled up his playbook and started making notes on everything New England had read off them.

~~*~~

_ Replacing Rogers at quarterback right now makes absolutely no sense. The Avengers are 1-4 and flailing in the AFC East, but they’ve played one of the league’s toughest schedules, with games against the Serpents, the Eagles, and now both of their matchups with the Patriots. Beating the 0-5 Browns obviously isn’t anything to write home about, but Fury has won four division titles in his career, and he seems to be aiming the Avengers in the right direction to win their first title since 2008. Four losses against excellent competition shouldn’t be enough to drastically steer the organizational ship in another direction and start with a brand-new quarterback. _

_ ~Luis Peña for Bleacher Report _

~~*~~

“Man, I’m tellin’ you, tits, tats, and abs...that’s the way to get his attention,” Bucky insisted as they made their way across the weight room Friday morning. 

Steve shook his head. “I don’t want that kind of attention...feels…” he shrugged. “Cheap.”

Bucky rolled his eyes as they loaded plates onto the bench bar. “It’d be cheap if you weren’t a thing. It’d be desperate.”

“What’s desperate?” Sam asked from where he was under the bench press setup right next to theirs.

“ _ Nothing _ ,” Steve insisted before Bucky could respond.

“ _ Press _ ,” Dum Dum commanded, smacking Sam’s shoulder. “Come on, flyboy. It’s in the name.” He looked up. “Who’s desperate?”

Bucky grinned down at Steve where he was getting situated on the bench. Steve just scowled up at him. Bucky turned his smile on Dum Dum and Sam. “He and Tony’ve been out of step last two weeks. Ships passing, you know?”

Dum Dum frowned. “That’s tough. I know Mary struggled with the time commitment of being in-season during my first couple years in the league.”

Bucky tapped the bar to get Steve moving. “Well, sure, but she’s got all her back-to-school hoops to jump through.”

Dum Dum shrugged. “We still had to learn to make time for each other though.” He took the bar from Sam. “Have you told him how you feel?”

Steve arched into his last couple of reps, the burn in his arms deep and satisfying. “Tony’s got a lot on his plate,” he insisted breathlessly as he set the bar back on the rack and let himself lay on the bench and stare up at the ceiling, his arms flopping down to the side.

“You should be part of that, though,” Sam pointed out.

Steve rolled his head to the side to glare at Sam and Bucky, who was shuffling for something in the pocket of his shorts. “How, exactly, would you suggest I make some sort of claim on the time of a man who is literally the face and name of the largest tech conglomerate in the world?” 

He stood and traded places with Bucky. Once he got settled, Steve let his open hands follow the bar as Bucky lifted off. “That’s like telling Steve Jobs to lay off the keynotes.”

“Well, what’s he been up to?” Sam asked.

Steve sighed. “The Senate wanted him to testify the week we were in Philly. Something to do with the Iron Man armor and the Armed Services Committee.” He trailed Bucky back down as he arched into his next rep. “I think it’s all classified.”

“Sounds very...Jack Ryan,” Bucky huffed before the clang of the bar on the rack drowned him out. 

Steve shrugged and dragged his thumbnail down one of the lines in the grip pattern. “I guess.”

“So what about this past week?” Dugan asked as he sat up. “We were at home and everything.”

“Malibu,” Bucky answered for him.

“Palo Alto,” Steve corrected evenly. They’d had this conversation a few times, and he was tired of Bucky making Tony sound like some asshole on vacation. He’d been out there doing contract work with the VA, but after Steve had felt like he had to weasel even that much out of him, he hadn’t pressed for more.

“What the hell was he doing all the way out there?” Sam asked

“Work,” Steve evaded.

Bucky just rolled his eyes.

Steve glared. “What would you call it?”

“Dunno,” Bucky said as they finished racking their plates. “Looked like getting snapped out to eat with some hot young woman.”

“His PA?” Steve asked. He’d seen the pictures of Tony and Karen out to lunch when he’d fired up his laptop and no fewer than five of his mom’s coworkers had all sent him the same TMZ link. He’d deleted them all. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He said he’d come to the game in Dallas.”

“Is he gonna go hang out with  _ Jerry _ ?” Clint asked from where he was doing upside down sit ups from the top of one of the squat racks.

“I wouldn’t think so,” Steve said. He started loading plates on the bar sitting in the squat rack next to Clint.

“Jesus can you imagine?” Bucky asked Clint. “The guy who’s dating the first openly gay--”

“Bi.”

“Bi,” Bucky agreed easily. “The guy who’s doing that  _ and _ who insists on the clause in our contracts that says we be allowed to express ourselves within the bounds of common decency hanging out with the guy who says his players gotta stand ‘toe on the line’ unless they want to get fired.”

“Plantation Owner Jerry,” Sam muttered, shaking his head.

“You’re not wrong,” Dum Dum agreed with an eye roll. 

Bucky smacked the outside of Steve’s thigh. “Get in that rack and show us how it’s done.”

Steve stepped under the bar and started getting it adjusted just so on his shoulders, but a soft click made him turn. “What’re you doing, Buck?”

Bucky shook his head down at his phone. “Screenshot of our schedule. Dugan left his tablet at home today.” He tossed his head at the rack. “Go spot him, Sam-I-Am.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “He’s  _ your _ partner for today.”

“Go deep,” Bucky advised, not looking up from where he was still messing with his phone.

Steve shot Bucky a look over his shoulder. “You better not be posting thirst traps of me on your Instagram story again.”

“Says the man who’s poppin’ his ass out  _ while _ he threatens me,” Bucky shot back, unrepentant.

Steve shook his head and faced forward. He inhaled and lifted the bar free of the cage. 

“Deep,” Bucky reminded him.

Steve rolled his eyes. “I’ll show you deep,” he muttered and started lowering into his first rep.

“Don’t drop your ass,” Sam coached from behind him. 

Down and up three more times without anyone else “helping” before Bucky’s voice asking a question under the music thumping through the weightroom made him tune back into his teammates behind him.

Steve wobbled as he went down, and Sam stepped over to put his hands on Steve’s sides for the come up. Sam tossed, “It’s his turn to DJ” over his shoulder.

“What?” 

“Nothing.” Sam chivvied Steve out of the cage once he’d re-racked the bar and they started reloading it for Sam. “Come spot me then we can do core and go eat.”

While Sam got himself situated under the bar, Steve glanced around for the rest of their group. “Where’d Bucky and Dugan go?”

Sam shrugged. “No idea.” He kicked out at Steve’s shin. “Pay attention so I don’t get crushed.”

Steve stepped up behind Sam and put his arms out. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Across the gym, the swoop of Bucky hitting send on a text on Steve’s phone got swallowed up by the music.

~~*~~

That afternoon, a soft “Gentlemen?” made Steve, Sam, Scott, and T’Challa look up from where they sat huddled around one of the tables in the film work area. Wanda Maximoff had materialized next to them with a small smile on her face. 

“Ms Maximoff,” Steve nodded at her. “What can we do for you?”

“Mr. Fury was looking for you.” She shrugged then brandished her phone at him. “He caught me after his presser and asked me to find you and bring you in for the final meeting.”

Steve smiled and gestured at the tablet and notes in front of them. “We’ve still got some work to do, but feel free to make yourself comfortable while you wait.”

Instead of answering she turned her phone around and showed them the screen, the camera open. “Could I? For the Instagram…?”

Steve glanced at T’Challa, the only player more private than him, but T’Challa just shrugged and turned back to the conversation he’d been having with Scott about how to turn the end of a route into a quality tie-up with a defender that wouldn’t end in a penalty. Steve nodded at Wanda then went back to his own conversation with Sam about midrange route adjustments. Hopkins wandered by and made some suggestions, pointing out a route look that Dallas had consistently been overlooking in their earlier games.

A few soft clicks of her phone’s camera later, and she stepped back with a smile. “Thank you. Our fans will love these.”

The soft ping of the PA made them pause. “May I have your attention, please,” Melinda, Fury’s hyper-competent assistant, spoke through the overhead speakers. “The final all-team meeting for today will begin in the film room in 5 minutes. Please be ready to begin promptly at 4:30.”

Fury’s Friday afternoon meetings mostly involved mother henning them about coming to the facility on Saturday morning ready to fly out as soon as their walkthrough finished, conducting themselves like professionals on the road and last minute reminders about that week’s game plan. 

Steve listened with one ear while he sketched Tony blowing Stern a kiss at the end of his three days in front of the Armed Services Committee. He’d set the DVR to record C-SPAN’s coverage, and Sam had laughed for three straight minutes when he’d come downstairs one evening to see Steve studying Stern’s questioning like it was game film.

“One final thing,” Fury’s voice drew Steve back into the meeting. He’d advanced his presentation to his final slide that simply read “New Captain” above a picture of the red patch with a gold C that all their captains wore. Once Bucky, Dugan, and Volstagg had joined Fury down at the front, he held up a real captain’s patch, framed in a small black shadowbox. “You’ve voted, first on whether you wanted to have a fourth captain since Fitzsimmons was hurt, and then on who that fourth captain should be.” 

He held the shadowbox out towards Steve, who was sitting in the second row, with a pleased smile. “Steve, we need our quarterback representing us in all ways.” 

Steve stood on numb legs and stepped over Sam and Scott’s knees to make his way down to the front where he took the framed patch from Fury, blinking at the soft sheen of the red background and the glitter of the gold letter and single star underneath and ran his thumb around the wooden frame. “I…”

He reached out and took the hand Fury had extended to him. “Thank you, Sir.”

Fury waved him off. “Don’t thank me. Your teammates look at you and see a leader. I do too. The only difference is my position affords me the opportunity to deliver the good news.” 

He nodded at the rest of the team, the frame gripped tightly in his hands. “I’m going to do my best to make you proud.” 

He started to step away, when Bucky and Volstagg’s hands on his shoulder and arm stopped him. “Where d’you think you’re going?” Bucky asked. “We’re in charge of dismissal.”

“Avengers?” Dugan called.

“Aye!” The team called back.

Bucky jabbed Steve and grinned when he turned back.

Steve smiled and nodded. He turned to face the team, his team. “Avengers! Assemble on three...one...two...three…”

“ _ Assemble _ !” 

The team stood and started filtering out, patting Steve’s arm and shoulders and offering congratulations as they went. Thor scooped Steve up in a bear hug crowing “You’re the most worthy man for the job!” before he noticed Jane Foster and her colleague Darcy Lewis speaking quietly near the door. He’d dropped Steve like a hot brick and gone to smile and flirt at Jane.

Sam grabbed Steve’s shoulders and shook him. “Man, look at you, a rookie captain!”

T’Challa placed a hand on his arm. “It’s well deserved, Steve.”

Scott pointed at the patch still in Steve’s numb fingers. “You should Tweet that.”

Steve shook his head. “No Twitter.”

Wanda hustled down as the players around Steve started to thin out. “Get together with your colleagues, Captain,” she said, camera once again open on her phone. 

Steve’s fellow captains surrounded him, arms around his shoulders. “Proud’a you,” Bucky said, squeezing Steve just a little tighter.

A few quick clicks later, and Wanda waved them off, grinning as she wrote up the tweet officially announcing Steve as one of the new captains.

Later that night, tucked up in bed, he dialled Bucky’s number to distract himself from the fact that yet another day had gone by without a call or a text from Tony. Not that he’d reached out himself or anything, but he brushed that off as not wanting to bother a man whose time was valued at literally thousands of dollars an hour.

“Hey, rookie,” Bucky answered after only a couple of rings. 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve said, smiling at the soft  _ “mrow?” _ in the background.    
  
“Get up here you needy thing,” Bucky murmured before he spoke to Steve. “So what’s up?”

“Can we--I’m--” he sighed. “I want to actually, y’know, help lead this team, and I can’t do that the way I’ve been…”

“Been…?” Bucky echoed, a ghost of a smile echoing in his voice. “You gotta give me more than that, Stevie.”

Steve laughed and shook his head at his own failure to communicate. “Been...everything. Thinking. Acting. Playing.”

“Don’t want much do ya?” Bucky asked genially. 

“Not at all,” Steve agreed. He shook his head. “Look, the way I figure it, we’re each leaders on our side of the ball, right?”

“Sure,” Bucky said. 

“And we don’t want to keep losing. For ourselves  _ and _ for the fans,” Steve pressed.

“Again, sound logic.”

Steve settled on his back, staring at the dim contours of the ceiling in the dark. “I was re-watching my film from the past three weeks, and I can see the places...the plays...the big plays, where I could’a put us out in front.”

Bucky hummed softly on the other end of the phone. “It’s not just you...I...there were a few key stops we could’ve had...should’ve had.”

Steve sighed. He wanted to make Bucky a promise. A promise to capitalize in the key moments. A promise to not let opportunities slip away from him. But a promise like that seemed so unfulfillable and trite.

“Hey, Stevie?” Bucky asked, tugging Steve out of his spiraling thoughts.

“Hey Bucky,” Steve answered from behind closed eyes.

“Imma commit to you right now,” Bucky said. “I’m gonna commit to being there for the big plays. Not letting some bullshit excuse stop me from hittin’ my block. Makin’ my tackle. Doin’ my job.”

Steve nodded against his pillow. “Then I’m gonna commit right back atcha. I’m not gonna let some bullshit excuse stop me from making my handoffs. Reading my routes. Doin’ my job.”

The smile in Bucky’s voice was audible when he spoke again. “Then nothin’s gonna stop us.” The soft rustle of bedding clouded the line as Bucky settled down. “Now get some sleep, punk. Sunday night’ll be here before we know it.”

Steve huffed a laugh. “Goodnight, jerk.”

Once he ended the call, Steve plugged his phone back in and rolled over, settling in easily for the first time in nearly two weeks.

On the nightstand his phone lit up silently with a pair of incoming texts.

> _ Jesus warn a guy before you just start sending me pictures like that. _
> 
> _ I miss you, gorgeous. Can’t wait to see you Sunday. x  _

~~*~~

_ And for more on the Avengers and their recent struggles, we send it down to the sideline and our own Gamora Zen-Whoberis. _

_ Thanks, Jim. I was speaking with Head Coach Nick Fury earlier, and I asked him about the team’s struggles the past three weeks. He told me that while his players are frustrated, they’re also motivated. They want to go out and play  _ **_their_ ** _ game and get a win as a team. For themselves and for each other. Jim? _

_ Thanks, Gamora. Now while the Avengers may want a win, they’ll certainly have their work cut out for them with these Cowboys. Longtime quarterback Alessandro Brannex is looking to break his own team record for pass completions, and he’s been hitting his receiving corps with mechanical precision. Quite the challenge for an Avengers team that’s been struggling to put points on the board. _

Even though the Cowboys came into the game with a thoroughly mediocre record, their fans started baying for blood the moment Steve and the offense took the field like it was the fourth quarter of the Super Bowl and the score was tied. The signs about Brannex being more of a man than Steve were easy to ignore. The alcohol-fuelled name calling, not so much. 

“I thought fans could get removed for obscenities,” Thor pointed out as they huddled up midway through the first, tied at three, and pinned on their own two.

Steve shook his head down at his wrist cheat-sheet. “No security team in the league’s gonna throw out half their own fans.” 

As soon as Steve took the snap and faked the handoff, he knew he was in trouble. T’Challa ran straight into the line and immediately had nowhere to go. Masters and Madigan doubled up on Thor and immediately started pressing him back in their efforts to break through the line. With Thor’s hands full, the outside linebacker Franklin Hall slipped through and into the backfield without meeting any resistance. 

“Someone’s open,” Steve muttered as he slipped free of the pocket and kept looking for the extra Avenger while he ran.

Hall got a shorter angle on his route, though, and blasted into Steve from the side. Steve’s head snapped back as the silver dome of Hall’s helmet connected with the bottom of his faceguard. He went down hard, gasping as his back bounced off the turf and his head cracked against the ground, shaking his mouthguard loose. He gagged as the bit of plastic meant to protect his teeth slipped sideways and almost into his throat. He managed to hang onto the ball by sheer force of will, but that only meant the damage now involved points.

“Fuck yeah!” Hall crowed as the rest of the Dallas defense rushed him, arms over their head in the safety signal. 

“Laid that cocksucker  _ out _ !” Masters howled somewhere over Steve’s head

Steve huffed a couple of times, trying to force his breathing back into a regular rhythm, while he blinked the black spots out of his eyes. 

“Steve, Steve, you okay?” Sam’s face appeared in Steve’s field of vision, his eyes wide and worried while his hands danced lightly over Steve’s chestpads. “D’you need the trainers?”

Steve shook his head against the ground, not quite trusting himself to sit up yet. “I--” he coughed “I think I’m okay.”

Thor reached down to offer him a hand up off the turf. “We’ve been robbed, Steve.”

“How?” He let Thor pull him to his feet. A slow, experimental inhale didn’t immediately set off any warnings about rib or back pain, and a couple more blinks cleared the rest of the spots from his vision. 

“No flag,” T’Challa said.

“I mean, I still had the ball, so it’s not gonna be roughing” Steve pointed out as they trotted off the field to make way for the punt crew.

Sam shook his head. “Shouldn’t matter when it’s helmet to helmet.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Steve agreed. “But they didn’t call it, so we move on.”

On the sideline, Fury grabbed Steve’s arm. “How’s the head?”

Steve shrugged. “I’ll live.” He held his hand out to Carol for the tablet in her hands. “Show me what happened.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking about ten seconds from pulling her marker out of her pocket to make Steve follow it with his eyes. “We’ve got the tent pulled up. You know it’ll take less than a commercial break to get you evaluated.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “I just got the wind knocked outta me. They didn’t call anything. We can’t challenge a non-call. Now come help me figure out how to make this not happen again.”

She nodded, but didn’t look especially convinced as they settled on the bench to look at the failed play that had cost them two points. 

He and Carol were curled over the StarkPad deep in a passing route speed read conversation when Bucky and Dugan both came running over. Bucky flung himself down on the bench next to Steve and held out a football. “Want this?”

Steve blinked down at the ball then up at Bucky and Dugan. “Where--?”

“Stripped it off that dickhead running back Tykkio and Buckster here picked it up and got us a few yards,” Dum Dum said proudly. “Figured you’d know best what to do with it now, new captain.”

Carol flapped the cover closed on her tablet. “Looks like you’ve got work to do, Steve,” she said with a smile. 

Steve grabbed his helmet off its stand and huddled up with the rest of the offense while they waited on the refs to confirm the turnover, and Steve met each of their eyes as he spoke. “That last drive is over. And I know we didn’t get the call we think we deserve, but that’s behind us. When you get out on that field, do  _ your _ job first. Don’t worry about the ref doing his.”

Volstagg nodded. “No excuses. We’re in charge of ourselves on that field.”

Working with a short field made a world of difference. Without having to worry about getting dropped in the endzone and giving up another two, or seven, points, Steve had access to much more of the playbook. Heimdall’s steady voice over the radio in his helmet and a look at the zone read Dallas gave him made up his mind, and when he got the snap, he handed off smoothly to T’Challa for a quick four yards. Once they had a few successful plays between themselves and the safety, Steve could feel them start to loosen up. Down the field on three straightforward first downs before the Cowboys defense started to stiffen up. 

Steve nodded up at the down and distance displayed on the Jumbotron. “Second and six is doable. We get that and we’ve got first and goal.”

“And an answering score’ll really show these bastards what-for,” Scott chimed in.

Steve smiled at him. “Exactly. So we’re going with three wide-outs and two in the backfield. Keep all our options on the table.”

All of their options turned out to include Steve having to tuck and run when the pocket collapsed on him before he could get all the way through his reads. Masters broke through with a roar, but when he only got hold of Steve’s pads, Steve rolled under his hands and straightened up just in time to see a gap between Fandral Flynn and Hogun Grim open wide enough that he knew he could slip through. 

Steve tried to keep his pass options open as long as he could, using the motion of his pump fake to propel him forward as he kept scanning for an open receiver downfield, but when he saw Scott turn the end of his route into a block instead of a look, Steve just tucked the ball and bolted for open turf. Five yards out, he cut back in to avoid a grappling Hopkins and Hall, then trotted easily into the deep blue of the endzone.

He let Fandral and Hogun sweep him up between them, and he wrapped his arms around their necks. “Couldn’t’a done it without you,” he said, grinning between them. They both thumped him soundly on the back then set him down so the rest of the offense could congratulate him under the chorus of heckling from the stands. 

Another Dallas field goal right before the half shrunk the Avengers’ lead back down to only two, but taking a lead into the locker room at halftime meant the conversation could stay focussed on how they could grow their lead instead of how they needed to come back. 

"I don’t like the way they’re talkin, though,” Bucky griped as they trotted down the tunnel. “Refs’re letting them get away with too much.”

Steve shrugged. “It’s just talk. Not much we can do about it except show ‘em who’s boss with our play.”

Morita shook his head. “It’s not just talk though, is it? They’ve clearly already gotten away with one major penalty.”

Carol stalled any reply from Steve when she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into medical. “I know you said you’re okay, but I want Dr. Strange to check. Just to make sure.”

Steve nodded obediently as she passed him off to the team’s chief neurological doctor. 

“Rogers,” Strange said, looking up from his iPod. “Ms. Danvers said you took quite the hit.” He pulled a penlight out of his pocket and held Steve’s chin still while he started moving it.

Steve shrugged as he tracked the motion with his eyes. “First time I’ve been targeted in the pros.”

“Hmm.” Strange flashed the light into his eyes, nodding when Steve squinted into the light. He stuck the penlight back into his pocket and started feeling down Steve’s neck. “Any pain? Stiffness?”

“Not more than usual.”

Strange sighed. “Please spare me any macho posturing.”

“I’m not!” Steve retorted, suddenly indignant. 

Sam stuck his head around the door. “You okay for the second half?”

Steve looked at Strange, who just sighed and waved him off. “Far be it from me to stop you.” He reached out for Steve’s arm, stopping him as he slid off the exam table. “If you take another hit like that, I want you in the blue tent. No argument.”

Steve nodded. “No argument.”

Dallas got the ball to start the second half, but the first few drives were a dispiriting mix of back and forth three-and-out and two first down and out drives. Midway through the quarter, though, the Cowboys caught fire, and Steve could only watch helplessly as Brannex and the Cowboys’ offense marched methodically down the field and pushed their way in for a touchdown, much to their fans’ delight. Bucky came off the field spitting mad about the way Mordius, the Cowboys’ recently acquired wide receiver, had pushed off to make his touchdown grab. 

“Explain to me how Maxwell fucking Mordius pushing off not once, but twice, isn’t pass interference?” he demanded, throwing his helmet at the bench. 

Steve sighed as he pulled his own helmet on. Now was not the time to coddle Bucky’s perceived slight over the ref’s calls...or lack of calls. Now was the time to go get an answering touchdown and shut the Dallas fans up. 

“Don’t give in and play this game their way,” Fury reminded Steve while they waited for the media timeout to end.

Steve just nodded. 

Down the field on a mix of bang-bang passes, sharp runs, and a couple of opportune Dallas penalties, put the Avengers into the red zone as the third quarter came to a close. Walking back down the field for the quarter change, Steve stared up at the mammoth screen suspended above the field exhorting the fans to “Make some noise!” and wondered if the sorts of things the Dallas fans were shouting were what the makers of these animations really had in mind. 

The first play of the fourth quarter, a neat end-around run, turned into a textbook run play as the entire line hit their blocks, the receivers all tied up their cover men, and T’Challa turned the corner and ran, virtually untouched, into the Dallas endzone. T’Challa, never one for ostentatious endzone celebrations, simply tossed the ball to the ref as he accepted slaps to his helmet and shoulders from the rest of the offense. He met Steve almost at the sideline, and they shook hands, a celebration they’d started during practice that Scott called “the business professional’s touchdown celebration.”

“Please tell me we have that on film?” Steve asked Carol as he put his helmet on the post behind the bench. 

“The rushing score?” she asked, passing the tablet over. “Of course we do. And you know, T’Challa’s going to be absolutely insufferable about how perfect that play was for at least a week.”

Steve grinned up at her. “He deserves to be.” He started scrolling back through the drive, looking for the moments when they would have stalled out but for an auspiciously timed penalty. “What’s the deal with their DE Madigan? He and that linebacker Hall have been causing us trouble all night.”

She shrugged. “Holding that’s not getting called.”

“We should be able to deal with that,” he muttered down at the screen. 

Carol Danvers rolled her eyes and took over swiping through the analytics next to the player window. “The refs should be able to deal with calling it too, though.”

“Shoulda woulda,” Steve dismissed. “No use fretting about what everyone else’s doing.”

“Or not doing.”

“Or not doing,” he agreed. “None of that’s gonna put a W up.”

Carol laughed. “Okay, Stan Lee.”

Steve grinned at her. “You laugh, but he’s one of the best commentators in the game.”

“He is at that,” she conceded. 

The Dallas fans erupting in cheers pulled them from their conversation in time to see Tykkio high stepping into the endzone untouched. Steve sighed. A five point deficit felt distressingly familiar, but with five minutes left, they could still make something happen. That something just had to be a touchdown.

Bucky didn’t say anything as the defense ran off the field. He didn’t even take off his helmet. He just stood on the sideline, eyes fixed on the field like he could will the kickoff to be something more productive than a touchback. 

“Don’t worry about him,” Volstagg said, noticing Steve watching Bucky. “Barnes plays with his heart as much as his head.”

Steve glanced back at Bucky’s carefully blank face behind his facemask. “Is he…?”

“He’ll be right,” Thor said easily. “We’ve plenty of time to drive the ball.”

Steve nodded. “You’re right. So let’s drive the ball.”

A pair of first downs got them near midfield, but a dropped pass, an incompletion, and a stymied rush brought up a fourth and ten they didn’t want. Jorge Latham patted Steve sympathetically on the shoulder when he came out with the punt crew, and Steve offered him a grimace of a smile in return. 

Latham launched a high, end-over-end punt towards the outside hash of the 15, clearly hoping for an Avengers bounce or two, but when Lyle Getz, the deep receiver stepped up to catch it, the ball slid right through his arms and onto the turf. Dennis Dunphy had sprinted down towards Getz, but he’d pulled up when Getz had started signalling for a fair catch, but when the ball slid through his arms, Dunphy collapsed on top of it. A couple of the Cowboys dove into Dunphy, trying to jar the ball loose, but he curled around the ball like it was a live grenade until the ref’s whistle finally sounded.

Steve motioned the offense into a huddle while they waited on booth confirmation of the turnover. “We’ve been given a gift. We’re only down by five...one score and this game is  _ ours _ .”

The refs signalled the turnover as confirmed, and Steve led the offense back onto the field to try for a touchdown again. 

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, faggoty ass bitch,” Sean Madigan hollered from across the line of scrimmage.

Steve ignored him and made his pre-snap calls, pointing out the coverage for his receivers. He counted down for Volstagg, and took the ball cleanly then dropped into his three step pattern and started his progression. He spotted Hopkins and Sam both wide open in the endzone. He let fly with the ball, and as Sam stepped over to back up Hopkins who caught the ball without even having to step into the catch. 

“Goin’ back to my bench with the lead,” Steve snapped at Madigan as they retreated to the sideline for Clint and his PAT guys.

Latham buried the kickoff inside the ten, pinning the Cowboys deep with less than a minute left for the defense to hold. Bucky was still grumbling about the character of the entire game, so Steve and Sam went to stand down near the line of scrimmage for emotional support.

“Two plays?” Sam asked.

Steve shrugged. “Maybe three. Depends on how fast they can get out.”

Sam wrapped an arm around Steve’s shoulder and grabbed him by the back of his jersey. “You excited for your first win as the first out NFL quarterback.”

Steve huffed a laugh. “Clock doesn’t say zero zero yet. It’s not a sure thing till--”

The ref’s whistle and a storm of flags cut him off as on the field, Bucky swung into the side of Yorgon Tykkio’s head then tried to land a hit on Brannex, who was laid out prone, while Dugan, Morita, and Dernier all tried to drag him away. 

“What?” Steve asked helplessly, but Sam grabbed his arm and pointed up at the Jumbotron display suspended over the field.

Projected on all four screens, the replay showed Bucky grabbing Brannex by the facemask and throwing him to the turf then whipping around and lashing out at Tykkio with the brace on his arm. The sidewinder to the helmet had gotten him out of Bucky’s face, but that only meant he could turn his attention back on Brannex. 

The ref’s hand on his chest meant that all Bucky did was lunge at the offensive linemen who were clearly still saying something Bucky didn’t like, but he didn’t actually try to push past her to get to the linemen. Eventually, the combined pressure of three of his teammates and two refs was finally pushing Bucky towards the Avengers’ bench.

Once he made it to the sideline, he ripped off his helmet and shoved into Dugan’s hands. “I’m fuckin’ done,” he snarled.

On his way to the tunnel, he grabbed Steve by the arms. “Listen to me good, rookie.”

Steve nodded dumbly, too shocked to even say anything.

“No one, and I mean goddamn no one, should be able to talk  _ to _ you or  _ about _ you like these assholes did today.” He shook Steve when Steve didn’t answer right away. “D’you hear me? Imma get suspended, but that doesn’t matter if this stops.”

“I hear you, Buck,” Steve promised, nodding to ensure Bucky could see he understood.

Bucky shook him once more then let him go. “Good. I’ll see ya’ on the plane.”

Steve watched him go up the tunnel then turned back to Sam. “I don’t--”

Sam just shook his head. “He willingly tanked his season for you. Don’t look at that lightly.”

“Gentlemen?” A woman in a bright yellow stadium security shirt smiled at them when they turned to her. “Given the way this game is going to...ah...end…”

The clock clicked down to 0:00, and the fans immediately started booing. A few even winged their metal beer bottles towards the field, but most of them clanked ineffectively off the Avengers’ equipment containers. One bounced off the side of Steve’s cleats, and he just stared at it, his brain unwilling to compute the emotional underpinnings behind throwing the dented Bud Light bottle that now lay at his feet.

She touched Steve’s elbow to bring his attention back. “If you would? We’ve been asked to forgo the end-of-game meet and greet.”

Steve nodded. “Sounds good.”

In the locker room, the fight muted any celebration, so after Fury’s wrap-up, Steve focused on stripping out of his uniform and getting cleaned up. He was halfway dressed when Pietro appeared at his side.

“The media wants a word?”

Steve offered him a thin smile while he finished buttoning his shirt. “I like that you ask like I have a choice.”

Pietro turned and nodded to the media reps hanging just outside the bubble of their conversation.

Steve answered a few questions about the win: how good it felt to get a win; that 2 and 4 wasn’t where they wanted to be, but it was a step in the right direction; and that his own rushing touchdown had broken the game open had indeed felt good.

“What about the fight?” a man from the local CBS affiliate asked.

Steve stared down at his fingers while he tied his street shoes. “I’m not--I didn’t see why it started, but fighting’s always dangerous.”

“What did he say to you afterwards?” A man in a print press badge asked.

Steve glanced over at Bucky studiously focused on packing his bag then back at the press surrounding him. “He reminded me that no matter what we needed to finish strong.”

“Isn’t that a bit...hypocritical?”

Steve rose up to his full height and crossed his arms over his chest, making the reporter who’d leaned in to ask his question take an instinctive step back. “How so? At the end of the day, we’re all we’ve got. It’s our responsibility as teammates to lift each other up and hold each other accountable and  _ take care _ of each other. Why should it matter if it’s me doing that or T’Challa or Dugan or Bucky?”

“I--It--”

Steve nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready for our flight home.”

Bucky shook off Pietro’s request for media time, keeping to himself while the hustle of the locker room tapered off. When he and Steve were the only two left in their corner, he finally turned back. “You didn’t have to do that...not tell them what I told you.”

“It--No one’s ever done what you did for me tonight.” Steve blinked sharply, trying to keep the sudden heat at the back of his eyes from spilling out. “Don’t just brush this off, Buck. You--you’d give up your season over some words? Nothing’s come close to that.”

Bucky laughed and shoved gently at Steve’s shoulder. “‘S not just words, and you know it. Some kid’ll see you makin’ it here and he’ll ask his ma for pads and a helmet when he wouldn’t’ve before. You don’t need to put up with their bullshit when you got me in your corner.”

Steve threw his arms around Bucky’s neck, letting his shirt absorb the few tears that slipped free. “Don’t know what I’d do without you, Buck,” he mumbled.

“Not send your man thirst traps, that’s for damn sure,” Bucky said, laughing wetly.

“I fuckin’ knew that was you!” Steve cried, shoving Bucky away. “Dum Dum forgot his schedule, my ass.”

Bucky shrugged, unrepentant. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Steve tilted his phone towards Bucky as they walked, showing him Tony’s texts from Friday night. “You tell me.”

Bucky grinned. “Knew it would. Two weeks is too much time to have only your hand for company.”

Steve grimaced. “That’s disgusting.” He flipped his phone onto airplane mode as the flight crew gave the pre-flight announcements. “Oughta tell Nat you said that…”

Bucky waggled his eyebrows as he pulled out his tablet and queued up his Netflix. “Speaking of Nat--”

“How’s the pining going?” 

Bucky grinned. “Might not be pining much longer. She’s letting me take her to dinner during the bye week.”

Steve took the earbud Bucky offered him. “She likes Russian food during daylight and steak after dark.”

“How about you?”

Steve shrugged. “Tony’s gotta go back to California. He’s working on some medical device...thing...with the VA, and he’s gotta be out there.”

Bucky nudged him. “We don’t have practice till next Monday. See if he’ll take you to the West Coast with him. Go lounge on a beach for a week.”

Steve smiled as he leaned sideways to see the tablet a bit better. “Maybe. It’d be nice to just…”

“Let go?”

Steve nodded lazily against the seatback. Bucky clicked play, and they watched Lego Masters all the way home, arguing good-naturedly about which evil lair they’d want for themselves if they turned super-villain.

Back at the practice facility, everyone scattered to their cars, calling goodbyes and congratulations on the win. Steve checked his phone, smiling at the text from Tony.

> _ You up? _

Steve rolled his eyes down at his phone and pecked out a reply.

> _ You literally saw me running up and down a field a couple hours ago. _

Tony’s next question was almost instantaneous.

> _ So is that a yes? _
> 
> _ That’s a yes. _

Steve strapped his bag to the back of his newly-repainted motorcycle.

“See you tomorrow?” Sam asked with a smirk.

“He better not see you till we report back next Monday,” Bucky hollered from three spaces over.

Steve closed his eyes and prayed for patience. His friends meant well. He knew that. One more breath and he opened his eyes and smiled patiently at Sam. “I’ll tell you the plan once I know it.” 

“Wear a helmet on the streets and a rubber in the sheets,” Bucky advised, still at top volume.

“Hoffa’s about to be gettin’ some company if you keep talkin’ like that,” Steve threatened then pulled his helmet on to end the conversation and gunned his engine.

By the time Steve made it to Midtown, it was nearly three in the morning, and the adrenaline of a close win had almost faded, leaving him shaky and a bit out of sorts. He scowled as he waited at the last red light before the tower. Every space along the curb for the entire block in two directions had a car in it already, but just as he decided to look for public parking, the earbud he’d left in started ringing with an incoming call. 

“Anyone ever tell you the parking on your block is the worst?” Steve said.

“Mr. Rogers, if you’d proceed to the parking entrance on the east side of the building, you’ll find you have access to Mr. Stark’s personal garage,” JARVIS’s politely detached voice said over the connection.

“Oh, sure. Thanks, JARVIS,” Steve said, turning into the gated underground garage. 

Steve parked the bike between a canary yellow Audi and a pristine white Bugatti, struck by the casual display of Tony’s wealth. “What’s he getting out of this?” Steve asked himself as he secured the bike and grabbed his bag. 

“You’ll find Sir in the master suite,” JARVIS spoke up again once Steve was in the elevator on the way to the penthouse. 

Steve nodded at the pinhole camera Tony had pointed out to him one night on their way to dinner. As alone as he’d been all day, Steve finally let himself slump against the far wall of the elevator and throw a momentary pity party. Captaining was only going to get more complicated. The League leadership came down on fighting hard, especially since the only thing Goddell hated more than collective bargaining season was bad publicity. Bucky’s fight would put them squarely in those sights since it would be all SportsCenter would want to talk about: snapping a three game losing skid with a fight. 

“Hey winner,” Tony smiled at Steve over the edge of his tablet.

Steve collapsed wordlessly onto the bed next to Tony with a huff. “Missed you,” he mumbled into the pillows. The gentle scratch of Tony’s fingernails against his scalp made him groan and melt further into the mattress. He wondered idly what it would take for Tony to just let him lay here for a week.

“Feels good?”

Steve hummed, arching his neck into the contact. 

Tony’s soft voice made him look up. “Missed you too, Sporty Spice.”

Steve rolled all the way over and smiled up at Tony. He looked so easy in a washed-soft shirt with his hair rumpled and a pair of glasses perched on his nose that looked vintage. He reached up and tapped the bridge of Tony’s glasses with a single finger. “You look like Carey Grant.”

Tony laughed as he set his tablet and glasses aside then slid down in the bed until he was nose to nose with Steve. “It’s nice to see you win. Looks good on you.” He reached out and brushed Steve’s bangs off his forehead. “Come to Malibu with me this week?”

Steve sighed. He wanted to. But the looming investigation by the League of Bucky’s fight made him hesitate. “I--d’you think the League’d be able to find me? For Bucky.”

Tony’s eyes shuttered just a bit, even though he kept his easy smile. He shrugged. “Sure. It’s not like we’re going to Atlantis.”

Steve insinuated himself into the circle of Tony’s arms with a small hum. “Then I’d love to.”

He closed his eyes, letting the slow drag of Tony’s hand down his spine slowly lull him into a doze. “Never really seen the West Coast.”

Tony squeezed him closer. “You’ll love it. Promise.”

~~*~~

**ESPN Breaking News:** NFL suspends Avengers CB Bucky Barnes for remainder of regular season over sucker punch. Barnes has stated he will appeal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2020 is kicking my ass. I feel like I've completely ruined my work-life balance. Which is why this chapter took more than a hot ass minute. I swear on my everything, I'm working on this fic as regularly as I'm able (usually whenever the NFL is on my TV) and it will be finished.
> 
> All of y'all who leave kudos, share your kind words with me, who come back and read each new update (even when they take a bit)...Y'all are my Pro-Bowlers for sure.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Shows up 3 months later with Starbucks* "Hey, y'all!"
> 
> So here’s the deal...when an NFL player (or any professional athlete for that matter) gets suspended, they can appeal their suspension. Depending on the sport, the suspended player can keep practicing and suiting up and even playing while the appeals process works itself out.
> 
> The bye week in the NFL is split in half. They know this is a money-making enterprise, so you can bet your ass all 32 teams don’t have off mid-season at once.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to the incomparable Betheflame for absolutely stellar handholding and cheer-reading. Thank you to Stella, for helping me get my head on straight about how to actually *show* this chapter instead of telling.

Monday morning, Steve woke slowly to a pair of fingers walking gently up his bare spine. 

“If you want to go west, young man, you’ll need to get up soon,” Tony murmured then pressed a kiss into Steve’s shoulder.

“No clothes,” Steve mumbled, his brain still hazy and half asleep.

Tony’s laugh vibrated against his skin. “You’ll need clothes at least to get on my plane. But after that…”

Steve smiled into the pillow as Tony’s fingers made it to the top of his neck and buried in his hair. “Not enough clothes,” he tried again.

Tony draped himself over Steve’s back. “Okay, well now I’m just confused.”

Digging his shoulder into the mattress, Steve rolled under Tony without dislodging him until he was on his back with Tony on his chest. “I only have my away game bag.”

“So?”

“So,” Steve squeezed Tony’s waist as he dragged the word out. “Unless you have a secret stash of clothes in my size wherever you’re staying in California, I--”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Tony cut him off. “Is this really about clothes? Because I saw what you wore to Dallas on the team Instagram. And I saw what you wore home when you got here last night. And that’s all totally fine for anything we’d do in public.” He leered down at Steve, all artificial smarm and sleaze. “And as for anything we’d do in private…”

“It’s not,” Steve admitted, cutting his eyes away from Tony. 

“Care to tell me what it’s really about?” Tony pressed.

He didn’t think he could explain his real hesitation, no matter how much he really wanted to. That he felt responsible for Bucky’s fight and suspension. That he felt like Tony wouldn’t...couldn’t understand why this fight, awful as it was, meant so much to Steve. That knowing his first friend on the team saw him, knew who he really was, and would fight to defend his right to be himself, no matter the cost.

“No. It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.” Tony’s eyes said he clearly didn’t buy Steve’s brush off, but he didn’t press. 

“Do I have time to get cleaned up?” Steve asked in an attempt to push them past the awkwardness of the last few minutes.

Tony buried his face in Steve’s neck and shoulder and breathed him in then shook his head, his hair tickling Steve’s chin. “You smell fine.” His tongue prodded gently at Steve’s neck. “You taste fine too.”

Steve laughed. “I still need to wash my face and brush my teeth and all that.” He squeezed Tony tight again then let him go. “I can be completely ready in 30 minutes.”

Tony licked him one more time then rolled off and let Steve sit up. “I’ll get coffee going and tell Happy we’ll be ready by 9.”

Steve hustled through his morning routine, not wanting to be the reason they were late, but his phone ringing stopped him halfway through getting dressed. A New York number flashed on his screen over the red and green answer/decline phones.

“Hello?”

“Steven Rogers?” A detached, professional male voice asked from the other end of the connection.

Steve frowned as he grabbed the tablet off Tony’s desk. “Who may I say is calling?”

“My name is Phil Coulson, I’m with the NFL’s Football Operations Office.”

Steve hit enter on his Google search, and the number did, in fact, belong to the NFL. “Can I help you with something, Mr. Coulson?”

“I’ve been tasked with investigating the fight Mr. Barnes was involved with on Sunday night,” Coulson said.   
  
Steve dropped onto the edge of the bed. He should’ve known this was coming. “Okay.”

“Is there a time you could come in for a formal statement this week? I know it’s your bye week.”

Tony appeared in the door, a pair of travel mugs in hand. He cocked his head at Steve in a silent question, and Steve just shook his head. Once he was off the phone he could explain.

“I--I’m on my way to the airport right now, actually,” Steve lied. 

Tony’s eyebrows shot up at the deception.

“Could we set up a time to do it over the phone?”

Coulson sighed, and Steve could hear the soft rustle of pages turning in the background. “I can come to you. On Wednesday.”

Coulson clearly wasn’t offering.

“I--okay. Wednesday,” Steve conceded.

“Where am I going?” Coulson asked over the clack of his computer keys. 

“California.” Steve looked up at Tony and mouthed “Where?”

“Malibu,” Tony mouthed back.

“Uh...LAX?” Steve suggested, naming the only California airport he actually knew.

Coulson made a noise like the idea of flying into LAX had just made his day twice as complicated. “Address?”

Tony shook his head and grabbed the phone. “Who is this?”

“Well why are you not talking to the people directly involved?” he asked after a pause for Coulson to explain.

After he’d said his piece Tony sighed. “That seems awfully fast, but I’ll book you two into a conference room at SI.”

Tony ended the call and tossed Steve’s phone back at him. “D’you want a lawyer?”

Before he could answer, his phone pinged with an almost suspiciously timed text from Natasha.

_ Don’t worry about talking to Coulson alone. I’ll be in LA Tuesday night to be there with you on Wednesday. _

“I--I’m not sure,” Steve said. “Nat’s coming, and she’s pretty ruthless.”

“She’s just your agent,” Tony pointed out. He shrugged then started typing quickly on his own phone. “Better safe than sorry. I’ll get my personal counsel to reserve the day. If Edith can’t keep you out of this shitshorm, you deserved to be there in the first place.” He looked up and winked. “And even then she might still be able to get you out of it.”

He pocketed his phone with a smile. “Now, let’s go erase all your tan lines.”

Tony’s driver, a big, burly man who insisted Steve call him Happy, drove them to the airport and chatted genially the whole way about how much he enjoyed watching Steve play. At the airport, Karen met them, portfolio and phone already out, and as soon as they’d settled for takeoff, she got down to business immediately. 

“Don’t forget you’ve got Senator Stern’s call today, and that has to be on a secure line, so--”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Karen. Care Bear. My Gal Friday. I don’t see--”

“You don’t see what? Why you have a duty as an American citizen to cooperate with a legitimate Senate inquiry? Why the head of the Armed Services Committee is concerned that one man owns a wearable weapon? Why you have to turn the garage into a SCIF for this call?

“Any of it!” Tony snapped. “This is  _ my _ IP. I’m not some megalomaniac intent on world domination. I’m using it to root out evils the military can’t. Or  _ won’t _ . And if  _ I _ control it,  _ I _ know it won’t fall into the wrong hands or be used for something...gross.”

While Tony had been talking, Steve dug out his headphones and turned on his pregame playlist. It was loud enough that he couldn’t eavesdrop on Tony and Karen’s conversation; something he didn’t think they’d want him doing if whatever was still going on with the suit involved Tony having to take secure calls from Senator Stern. He pulled a work notebook and a pencil into his lap and started bulleting down everything he could remember about Bucky’s fight during the Dallas game, but not having seen the fight in real time meant his list turned out distressingly short. He wrote down a few final thoughts, reminding himself as he wrote, that he wasn’t really the star of this investigation, then flipped his Spotify to something calmer and just let his head rest against the seatback and watched the clouds form and reform outside the window.

A gentle hand tugged one of his headphones out of his ears a while later, rousing Steve out of a not-quite doze. “We’re about to land,” Tony said when Steve looked up. He perched on the arm of Steve’s seat and tapped his closed notebook with a single finger. “What’ve you been up to over here all secret squirrel?”

Steve shrugged as he sat up and turned off his music then shoved his phone and his notebook back into his bag. “Trying to get my head straight for whatever this thing on Wednesday’s gonna be.”

“Any ideas?” Tony pressed.

Steve shook his head. “I didn’t see what started it.”

“Well SportsCenter said--”

Steve waved him off. “If SC had a window behind their desk and they said it was raining, I’d go check myself.”

~~*~~

Tony’s Malibu house was everything Steve thought of when he thought “eccentric tech billionaire.” Sleek clean lines, huge, open rooms, furniture that seemed designed for looking at rather than sitting on, and an honest-to-god waterfall in the foyer. 

Tony, however, didn’t seem to have gotten the memo that his house belonged in an architecture or design magazine. As he came in, he threw his arms out wide as he called “Daddy’s home!” then immediately ran and jumped on the sofa, landing on his knees like a kid trying to dodge a ‘no jumping on the furniture’ rule. 

“Welcome back to the West Coast, Sir,” JARVIS’s voice responded smoothly. 

“So this is the place,” Tony said, gesturing vaguely around the tastefully luxurious lounge. He pointed towards the stairs. “Upstairs and downstairs are both more...fun,...” Tony trailed off, scrolling quickly through his phone. He scowled and typed out a quick reply then looked up at Steve with an artificially bright smile. “I need to handle a couple of things, so make yourself at home.”

“Okay.” He glanced around at the sleek perfection of the ground floor. “Anyplace you want me to avoid, Bluebeard?”

Tony shrugged. “Not really.” He wrapped an arm around Steve’s waist and planted a kiss on his cheek. “I can’t let you come down to the garage for a while because I have to call Stern on a secure line about the armor, so--”

“I can’t believe he’s  _ still _ giving you trouble about that,” Steve said, mad on Tony’s behalf. “You’re a private citizen for God’s sake.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Tony dismissed. He smiled. “I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve he hasn’t even thought of.”

“Okay.” He grabbed his bag, but stopped with one foot on the bottom step of the stairs up to the second floor. “Where am I going?”

Tony flailed an arm towards the ceiling. “Just keep to the right once you get upstairs. It’s pretty easy once you’re up there.”

Steve nodded. “I’ll stay out of your way until you tell me you’re finished with Stern.”

“Hey, JARVIS?” Steve asked as he made his way up the stairs. “Can you let me know when Tony’s finished with his call?”

“I’m afraid not,” JARVIS’s disembodied voice answered. “I will be shut out of monitoring the garage until Mr. Stark grants me access again himself.”

“That’d defeat the purpose of a secure line, genius,” Steve muttered to himself, rolling his eyes. 

A pair of tasteful frosted glass french doors with some sort of high-tech lock on them separated the entire right wing from the rest of the second floor. JARVIS opened the doors with a quiet beep, and a soft “Mister Stark’s suite is at the end of the corridor.”

He slowed down so he could examine the series of photographs that lined the hallway that led towards the master suite. A tiny Tony, dwarfed by a national science fair trophy, grinned at the camera while a tall, rangy man in a full suit and a much smaller woman in a simple day dress stood behind him smiling proudly. Tony and someone who looked like a much younger version of Mr. Rhodes, both of them in MIT sweatshirts, hung off the frame of a robot wearing a multicolored birthday hat someone had written DUNCE on, their arms around each other and the robot as the camera caught them mid-laugh. Tony in the armor with the faceplate kicked up, holding a little girl who couldn’t have been more than five or six, who looked at him like he’d hung the moon while he brushed her hair back from her forehead as he spoke to her, a smoking village in the background. And finally Tony standing in the middle of a holographic projection of what looked, to Steve, like an incredibly complex geodesic dome, a beautifully open smile on his face.

Steve set his things down inside Tony’s bedroom, and dug out his sketchbook and the bag of art supplies that lived in his backpack. The balcony off the bedroom looked inviting with the mid-afternoon sun bathing the stonework and a pair of chase lounges in warm, golden light. Curling up on one of the loungers outside, he kicked off his shoes and wiggled his toes against the sun-warmed canvas of the upholstery while he flipped through his book to find a blank page. 

He started a basic outline of a man in 3/4 profile, but he left the face blank while he developed a muscular body, working the torso up into a jacket with a harness over the shoulders and around the chest. He kept sketching down the body’s midsection, into a utility belt with thigh holsters for a sidearm and a knife until he trailed off at the knees and went back up to start adding the rest of the body. He started in on the arms, turning the left arm into a complicated series of interlocking plates, but he left the right side alone, simply shading in the jacket down the figure’s right arm. He roughed in a face, but covered the entire bottom half with an industrial-looking half facemask. After a little deliberation, he drew in Bucky’s quiet, determined eyes unobstructed and searching. He pulled up the font from the Red Son miniseries and blocked in The Asset under Bucky’s comic book alter ego.

He kept idly fiddling with the details of his drawing, but the warm sun and the soft breeze coming off the water settled in his eyes, making him blink longer and longer. Eventually he put his pencil down and wrapped his closed sketchbook in his crossed arms and let the heaviness in his eyes drag him into sleep. 

Steve’s “winner winner chicken dinner” alarm and the chilling air that came with sunset woke him up a couple hours later, but when he went downstairs, the first floor was quiet and dark. Steve made his way into the kitchen with a bit of direction from JARVIS, and found what looked like steaks front and center in the fridge and some fresh vegetables in the crisper below. 

“JARVIS, are these for dinner?” Steve asked.

“Indeed,” JARVIS confirmed. 

He let JARVIS talk him through seasoning, searing, and then broiling the meat, but he got the asparagus and the little red potatoes ready himself. Once he had everything going, he started scrolling idly through his email, typing out a quick “I’d love to be a part of this” to an invitation to participate in an upcoming cross-sports youth athlete outreach event for Play 60 and forwarding the invitation to Natasha so she could see he hadn’t ignored her latest round of “be seen doing good” reminders.

A stutter of motion out of the corner of his eye made Steve look up, and when he did, he smiled at Tony who had come upstairs in a full-out Iron Man suit.

“Is this how you dress in California?” he asked with a smile.

“Sometimes.”

Steve’s timer made him turn away to check and then pull out the meat and vegetables to rest. When he turned back, he looked closer at the suit, at the different red and gold pattern. “Is--isn’t this a different suit than the one you’d been developing in New York.”

Tony shrugged, the tiny whirr of the servos in the suit accompanying the motion. “You know how it is...man’s gotta have hobbies.”

Steve laughed. “This seems like an odd sort of hobby to wear around the house though.” 

A soft cloud of static indicated Tony’s huff of laughter. “Gotta loosen it up before I take it flying. Nobody wants a pinchy undercarriage at 30,000 feet.”

Steve came over and ran his hands down the metal plating of the torso. “Oh, don’t think I’m complaining.” He flicked his eyes up to the unblinking blue slits of the faceplate. “You wanna lift that up and gimme a kiss?”

Tony took a half step back, and Steve blinked at the space that suddenly existed between them. Steve glanced between Tony...or at least, what he assumed was Tony, and the stairs he’d disappeared down to take his secured call. 

He took a couple steps towards the workshop stairs, and Tony reached out to grab his wrist.

“You can’t go down there.”

Steve shot an unimpressed look over his shoulder at Tony as he pulled the door open. “If you were still on your call, you wouldn’t be up here.”

“It’s--I--There’s a...radiation leak.” Tony’s voice trailed him almost halfway down the stairs, before it doubled and started sounding like it was coming from in front of Steve. “I--you shouldn’t come down here unless you’ve got a Geigger counter--”

“Or some iodine?” Steve asked, poking his head through the downstairs door. He smiled at Tony where he was doing pull ups with some sort of fancy headgear on. 

Tony dropped off the pullup bar and blinked the HUD away. “You miss me?”

Steve nodded. “Just a little.”

“Did you have a nice afternoon?” Tony asked as he came over, gently shoving the robot’s arm holding a tool tray out of his way.

“Yeah,” Steve said. “The balcony outside your bedroom is really nice. How’d your call go?”

Tony shrugged. “More of the same.”

“Well, come upstairs and let me feed you, and you can tell me all about it.”

“Or none about it,” Tony groused as he followed Steve back up the stairs and into the kitchen. 

“Or that,” Steve agreed, pulling their plates out of the oven.

“So what’d you do with yourself?” Tony deflected.

Steve waggled his head a little from side to side. “Drew a little. Napped a little. Y’know. Vacation stuff.”

“You can draw?”

Steve blushed. “Yeah. It’s nothing amazing or anything.”

“That can’t be true.” He leaned over and knocked his shoulder into Steve’s bicep. “So what do you draw?”

“Just…” he shrugged. “Whatever strikes me. Depends on my mood.”

“Is it murder clowns?” Tony asked. “Do you have a murder clown sketchbook.”

“Yep. Sure do.” Steve agreed with a nod. 

“I knew it,” Tony said. “I’m dating John Wayne Gacy.”

Steve laughed. “According to Sam it’s my art therapy.”

“I mean…” Tony shoved his asparagus onto Steve’s plate. “Murder clowns could be therapeutic.”

Steve shook his head, but started picking at Tony’s pawned off vegetables anyway. “It’s a mishmash of stuff. Most of the time it’s just whatever strikes my eye and keeps my hands busy. Stuff with texture is nice.” He stood to clear his plate. “Sometimes it  _ is _ more to work myself out, but that’s...that’s…”

“That can make it feel like not-a-hobby,” Tony finished. 

“Exactly.”

“Come sit outside with me,” Tony prodded, tugging Steve’s hand gently as he led him towards the terrace.

Steve grabbed his sweatshirt off the back of his kitchen chair and let Tony drag him outside. 

“So what was it today?” Tony asked when they were curled together on one of the oversized loungers.

Steve sighed and settled closer into Tony’s side. “Turned Bucky into a comic book character. Or, I tried to, anyway.”

“The hero?” Tony asked. “Or the villain?”

Steve shrugged. “Not sure. He looks like someone kinda violent and messy...but someone I’d wanna root for.”

“Should I be jealous?” Tony asked, tugging gently on the hair at the crown of Steve’s head.

Steve shook his head. “Don’t know why you’d want to be.” 

Tony didn’t answer right away. Instead the low throb of the surf pushed their conversation away into the dark. The only indication Tony even knew Steve was lying next to him was the way he sifted his fingers gently through Steve’s hair.

“This thing with Stern is just...a piping hot mess,” Tony finally admitted, shifting them away from Steve’s mess. He tangled his legs with Steve’s and when he spoke again, his voice was low and urgent. “There’s something  _ different _ about the way he’s coming after my tech this time.”

“How?” Steve asked.

“Before--Before he’d always peck around the edges of trying to do anything to me. There was no strategy. No finesse.”

Steve slipped his hand under Tony’s shirt, laughing when Tony sucked his stomach away from his chilled fingers. “Has he suddenly grown finesse?”

Tony sighed. “His tactics have changed. The threat he represents this time feels more imminent, and I--I have to protect the one thing that’s kept me...kept me sane. Let me feel like I was doing something right.”

“You do a lot right,” Steve murmured, mostly to himself. He didn’t want Tony to think he was trying to placate him.

“Doesn’t change that I can’t... _ can’t _ let him get his hands on this. Or whoever’s pushing him around,” Tony said, his voice low and urgent.

Steve squeezed Tony tighter. “You won’t.” He kissed Tony’s chest softly right over the arc reactor. “Smartest guy I know.”

“How about you?” Tony asked after the silence had stretched between them again. “What’re you gonna say on Wednesday?”

Steve shrugged. “Not sure what I can say that’ll make much difference.” He sighed. “But Bucky...Bucky’s had my back since I got here. I can’t just  _ not _ help him…’specially when he’s done so much for me.”

Tony nodded, but his voice sounded hollow when he answered. “I’m sure he has.”

~~*~~

Natasha rang Tony’s doorbell while Steve was still drinking his coffee on Wednesday morning, and JARVIS must have let her in because she appeared at Steve’s elbow a moment later. She’d come dressed for boardroom battle in a sleek black suit and a slim, quietly expensive looking laptop bag. 

“What’s this?” She asked, tapping the edge of his page with a manicured nail.

Steve shrugged down at the page where he’d been shading in some shadowing on yet another picture of Bucky-the-comic-book-character. “Bucky.”

Natasha smiled quietly down at the page. “He looks…” she patted Steve’s wrist. “I can’t tell if he’s the villain or not.”

Steve smiled sadly at her as he gathered his things. “I can’t either.”

~~*~~

**‘The NFL Doesn’t Want to Protect Gay Athletes’ Barnes on Season-Ending Suspension**

In a stunning complication of the most stringent punishment since Myles Garrett’s indefinite suspension without pay following a brawl with the Steelers, Avengers cornerback James “Bucky” Barnes, is facing a season-ending suspension for suckerpunching Cowboys’ quarterback Alessandro Brannex and running back Yorgon Tykkio in the waning moments of Sunday night’s game between the two teams in week 6, told Bleacher Report that he sees his suspension as evidence “the NFL is more worried about protecting its ass than protecting its gay athletes.” 

Barnes has received a suspension for the remainder of the season, including any playoff appearances, without pay. He appealed the decision, claiming Brannex and Tykkio, among others, had been using homophobic slurs towards his teammates, in particular, out quarterback Steve Rogers, before the brawl began. The NFL initially denied his appeal, noting there was "no such evidence" homophobic slurs were used, but after a fan-led backlash overwhelmed the NFL’s official social media outlets, they have agreed to hear his appeal.

Steve Rogers, Barnes’s teammate, has yet to comment publicly on the fight, but sources have confirmed that an employee from the NFL’s Football Operations was seen at Stark Industries during the Avengers’ bye week. While we at Bleacher Report decline to get into idle speculation, it would seem logical their presence at an SI facility would seem to indicate their interest in what Rogers has to say about Sunday’s brawl.

If his suspension is upheld, this suspension will end Barnes's season after just 6 games. He currently has 6 tackles for loss, 4 sacks, one forced fumble and an interception. 

\--Luis Pena for Bleacher Report

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so you know that fic writer meme that's been making the rounds recently on the Tumblr about AO3 authors are like "hey, sorry for the short update, but I'm working full time and my dog died and I ran away, but here's this." I laughed the first time I saw it, but y'all, I'm sorry for the long wait and the short update, but apart from the running away, this has been my life. I wish I was kidding.
> 
> Your kind comments and your generous kudos and you telling people about this fic are so generous and I appreciate each and every one of y'all so much.


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